


Building from Nadir

by alphablonde



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphablonde/pseuds/alphablonde
Summary: John Watson had planned to live his life as a Beta. He wanted to be known as a soldier, a doctor, and a friend of Sherlock Holmes; never as an Omega. It had worked. For twenty-five years, it had worked.Until it didn't.Facing the reality of failing suppressants amid the first case of a murdered Omega in thirty years, John is struggling to find himself and what exactly it means for his undefinable relationship with the very Alpha Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 135
Kudos: 280





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All errors are my own, I do not have a beta.

The results stared at John from the computer screen. Twenty years was as good as run as any he supposed. The paper hospital gown crinkled as he shifted back.

“Do you need me to go over anything?” Dr. Alice Jones asked from the stool as she moved the display back to the top of the report.

John cleared his throat. “No.” He made another aborted cough.

“We’ve talked about this being an eventuality for a while now,” Dr. Jones started out as she focused back on him. “I know we had both hoped for a few more years.”

Heavily, John sat back down on the examination table. Omega specialists had been telling him his suppressants would fail since he had started taking them. They were only supposed to be an interim between presenting and finding a bondmate to naturally regulate his hormones. At twenty-five he had been told he was very lucky they still worked at all. Then, at thirty, that it was a straight-up miracle they had lasted.

It was all complete bollocks.

“We could try more Beta hormones,” John suggested. “That’s worked this past year.”

“With rapidly diminishing returns,” Dr. Jones corrected. “They started failing the moment we started using them as more than a stop-gap measure to temporarily alleviate heat symptoms. They’re not supposed to be injected weekly and we already pushed beyond the recommended levels last time you had a blip." She paused and flipped through his chart that had been resting on her lap. “Two months ago. Any more would be medically inadvisable.”

“Right. Recommended based on extremely limited studies and one clinical trial,” John ground out. “They had four Omegas in that trial. Four. And it only lasted one bloody month.” He had followed the clinical trial very closely while at university. “They needed to be doing trials for years. That’s not enough to come to any conclusion.”

“John,” Her voice turned soft, consoling. He hated that voice. He used it himself when dealing with irrational patients. She had to think he was being an uncooperative cunt. “If either of us pursued this outside of a government-funded and approved trial, we would both lose our licenses for something that, with current actual data for, we could harbor a guess of working for maybe one more year. If that.”

John let out a gust of air and ran his hand over his face. Of course, she was right.

“I know this is a lot to process, John,” Dr. Jones said. She dragged the stool closer, over from the desk to against the exam table. “No Omega suppressant is meant to be long term. You’re in scarce company. Most Omegas are bonded and off by their early twenties.”

“Shame that,” John said. He flexed his hand over his thigh. “Spotted nothing new for suppressants, have you?”

What a stupid question. He already knew the answer.

“You have access to the same studies and journals I do. There’s nothing new for suppressants for older Omegas.”

John cracked a tight grin. “I’m not that old.”

Dr. Jones grinned back. “No. Even at forty, you have another ten years of fertility if not a few more.”

“Christ. Don’t remind me.”

Her expression sobered. “That does mean you’ll need an Alpha attendant for any upcoming heats. I can have a list of Alpha services both private and public funded.” She pulled out a bunch of laminated flyers from a folder on the desk.

“I won’t be needing it.”

“Oh,” she sounded surprised. “You have an Alpha?” She started to check his chart. “You didn’t update your status.”

“Right. No.” John cleared his throat. “I don’t need an Alpha for my heats. I’ve been handling them on my own for years.”

“You’ve been handling suppressed heats,” Dr. Jones reminded. “An unsuppressed heat at your age without being bonded is already extremely dangerous. Without any Alpha to service you, you run the risk of heat poisoning. It is the most common cause of death for unbonded Omegas.”

“Because there is a large sample size for that information.”

“When was the last time you had an unsuppressed heat?”

“Alright. That was.” John sat back a bit. It had been a long while. Maybe even not since he started. “Was it ’89 when suppressants became legal beyond medical emergency?” Dr. Jones gave him a nod and a slight look of disbelief. “Alright. Before ’89 then.”

“You never took a gap?”

“Having any sort of heat was a gap,” John said irritably. “I was in med school and then a doctor and then in the army. A suppressed heat already requires up to two days. I wouldn’t have been allowed in med school needing four to seven days every month.”

“Omega heats are protected leave time.”

“That was only passed ten years ago.”

Dr. Jones furrowed her brows. “Really? Was it?”

John hummed in affirmation. “The same time A/A and O/O couples were approved for adoption rights. You would have been pretty young I imagine.”

“I—yes, I would have been sixteen.”

That was the entire reason John had picked her as his primary care doctor when he had been invalidated. All the other Omega specialists in London were career Alpha doctors and she had been fresh, hardly a month out of school.

“I remember the adoption act, but nothing about Omega labor laws.”

“It was seen as frivolous.”

A law pandering to Omega activists that was taking away the spotlight from one of the first real progressive laws towards same-sex couples. Harry had spent a long time drunkenly having a go at him when he was on leave. Omegas always had to steal the spotlight. Hadn’t he gotten enough of that growing up?

“Must have been a relief when it passed.”

John hummed noncommittally and smiled flatly. It had changed very little. He still took suppressants and suppressed heats were an itch he could choose to scratch or outright ignore.

“What did you do about heats before you had access?” Dr. Jones asked. “There’s nothing noted about it on your records.”

“I’ve always had access.”

“You have five years from when you presented to when a doctor could have prescribed them.”

John’s grin sharpened. “You know on my way to school I passed by four different heroin dealers who’d sell you a bag for a fiver? And at least one shooting gallery.”

“Pardon?”

“It was all quite lovely. People would just pass around needles to get high. All I had to do was show up and ask. Someone always knew someone who knew someone and then if I had money, they had what I wanted. It was all very efficient. I would say two heats before I was able to get suppressants.”

“Only two?”

“Yeah. Two.”

There had been more. John refused to think of them.

“The heats you’re going to start having are going to be very different than the ones you experienced when you were younger.”

“Right. My body is going to take a piss at me not being bred. One last bloody hurrah to attract some big strong Alpha to shove their cock up my arse. Sounds like a bloody good time.”

“I know you’ve read the studies of Omegas in non-A/O couples. Once Omegas reach their late thirties, they need Alpha attendants for their heats. As your doctor, as an Omega specialist, I’m telling you, you need a heat partner.”

“I can take care of it. I just need Alpha pheromones and a giant piece of silicone to hit my O-gland to trigger the backlog of hormones.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Dr. Jones said patiently. “Without an Alpha your body will continue to overproduce in an attempt to attract one. You will not be in a state of mind to take care of yourself and replenish all the fluids you will be losing. Severe hydration will kill you while you are near clinically insane. Is that how you want to die?”

“Would make a great headline.”

John clearly saw what the tabloids would splash. ‘Confirmed Bachelor Watson Dies during Heat!’ or ‘Renowned Web Detective’s Omega Drowns in Own Slick! Read Now!’ Probably followed by the one picture of Sherlock in the bloody deerstalker that seemed to be in every article about them. He’d rather blow his brains straight out. He could make it all nice, lay out a plastic sheet in the tub, and leave the rest of his body for Sherlock to cut up into bits and put in the fridge. Easy clean up too.

John quirked a smile. All of that was rather not good.

He dropped his hand out. “Hand them over then,” John said.

Dr. Jones passed them over with a great look of relief. “These are the top recommended programs for heat assistance. There are, of course, quite a few more if you want to do more research and find a program on your own.”

Program was a generous word. They were stud houses, where Alphas paid to have the chance for some Omega to take a sniff at their pheromones and maybe select them for a few days of a heat fuck.

The pamphlets glared up at John with obnoxiously bright colors and featured euphemisms like ‘Find the Alpha for Your Special time,’ floating over buff smiling Alphas. John turned one over in near disbelief. They had to be taking a piss.

“These’ll suit,” John managed after he glanced quickly inside one.

“I also have a few bits of literature for you to read about what to expect in the next few weeks as you start transitioning away from suppressants and Beta hormones,” she said as she pulled out a few more startlingly colored flyers and dropped them on his lap without asking. “And if those are too layman, I pulled a few medical journals on the subject. I’m sure you’ve already read up a bit.” She added them to the growing pile John was regarding with resigned disdain.

“I want to schedule an appointment next week to see how the transition is going,” she continued. “If it gets to be too much you can come in any time and we can administer some temporary blockers to help. We don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

John was not going to check himself into a hospital because he was failing to deal with his own biology.

“No,” John said. “Ta.”

Dr. Jones smiled at him. She gave his knee a quick pat. “Good. I’ll leave you to get changed. Just head to reception after you’re finished and we can get you set for next week.”

“Alright,” John said.

John stared straight ahead at the pink wallpaper as Dr. Jones collected her coat and closed the door behind her. He swallowed.

Flexed his hands.

Ignored the pile of pamphlets on his lap.

John had hoped to scrape by a few more years. Just old enough for Alphas to not take notice. Who wanted an almost infertile Omega?

Forty was too young.

The diffusers hissed noise into the room as they sprayed another round of neutralizer out. John inhaled the chemical air. The flat needed them now too. They’d have to be installed. Sherlock had dissected them all in one of his fugues and John had cut his foot open on one of the discarded parts. Right. John shoved the pamphlets to the bottom of his work bag and balled up the hospital gown before tossing it on the examination table.

He dressed quickly and checked his phone. Forty-five unread texts. All from Sherlock. He probably hadn’t listened when John had told him he had an appointment. A bemused smile covered his face as he read through the increasingly irate messages.

They had a case.

The cab stank.

One faded air-freshener dangled from the front mirror and the diffusers strapped to the air vents were crusted over with dust. There was nothing to curb the rich, burnt Alpha stench that seeped out of the pores of the old vinyl seats.

John started breathing through his mouth.

The first clue that his suppressants were failing had been his sense of smell; everything had just started being a bit more. London became almost overwhelming in its varied scents. It was a cesspool of bodies and smog and fabricated perfumes that burned at his nose until he took cover in deodorized buildings.

The last few months had forced John to make adjustments.

He dug out a scent strip from his pocket, peeled away the backing, and carefully stuck it up his nose. He sniffled, getting used to the invasive feeling. The first time he had tried them a few weeks ago he had sneezed them right out and wasted an entire pack before he managed to keep them in for the suggested hour. If Sherlock had noticed the excessive number of them in the bathroom bin, he had not deigned to say anything.

John rolled down the cab’s window and tucked his head against the doorjamb. The relief the strip offered was mild. He still smelled the Alpha sweat over the damp air from London but it was muted, a ripple instead of the impact.

Briefly, he had looked into the more popular option of diffuser jewelry. They were refillable and had adjustable strength options but they were anything but subtle. Anyone who saw him wearing one would know he was Omega. Years of carefully presenting himself as a Beta would run through his fingers like water. Completely unacceptable.

The taxi ride took another twenty minutes before pulling up to a modern building with a glass and polished stone front. Sherlock loomed by the front doors, texting. He looked up from his phone and pocketed it as John walked up to him.

“I’ve been waiting an hour,” Sherlock informed him crisply.

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of you,” John said.

Sherlock flicked his eyes over John. “You’re in work clothes. That won’t do,” Sherlock informed him.

John snorted. “What’re we doing here? There’s no police cars.”

“No. No,” Sherlock dismissed. He threaded his fingers through his scarf and pulled it off with casual efficiency. He looped it over John’s head and knotted it in his usual fashion. “Hm. A brighter blue would suit better.”

John glanced at the scarf and then at Sherlock. The nasal strip curbed the initial onslaught of Sherlock’s natural scent, leaving just the whispers of it to seep in. Soon enough he’d be swamped by it, the musky earth scent of unsuppressed Alpha and the more unique spicy notes that belonged solely to Sherlock. It reminded John desperately of the quiet days in the flat when John watched the telly and Sherlock fussed about with an experiment; safe and content.

John relaxed without noticing. His shoulders dipped and he leaned towards Sherlock, seeking out more of his natural scent, and as virile Alpha, Sherlock had lots of it. John often bemoaned that the flat only smelled like Alpha, like Sherlock, because the tit never did anything to curb his natural scent. No sprays, no colognes, no diffusers, and no medical-grade soap or body wash as John used on a daily basis. He finally caught on to his body’s subconscious actions as he stepped forward and almost into Sherlock.

John swallowed.

Another textbook example of his failing suppressants; over-attachment to familiar scents and actively seeking them out when nearby. John tried to push the scarf down, further away from his face and Sherlock knocked his hands away, adjusting it back to the original position.

“Don’t make it look worse,” Sherlock said.

Explaining to Sherlock that he might as well have pissed on his own scarf the way it smelled and that John was in feeble control of his instincts was right out.

“That can’t have made a difference,” John said.

“It’ll have to do. You should have worn a jumper.” Sherlock strode forward before turning back and holding out his hand.

“What?”

“Take my hand,” Sherlock insisted, wiggling his fingers.

“Shove off.”

John brushed Sherlock’s hand aside and started toward the door. A stray scent caught John’s attention. He stopped walking and sniffed.

“Have you started smoking again?” John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Interesting.”

Sherlock pulled up the edge of the scarf and leaned down to smell it. He took several perusing sniffs before turning to the main body of the scarf, putting his nose and face embarrassingly close to John’s neck.

John shifted nervously. He forced himself to hold still and stubbornly held his breath as Sherlock’s curls brushed against his cheeks. Sherlock finally pulled away with an irritated huff after a few passes over the fabric.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock,” John warned. “We agreed three months ago. Cold turkey. Where’d you even get a fag? You’re still paying everyone off.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Sherlock said.

“Omega’s have better senses.”

“You don’t. Your medications severely limit your nasal capacities. It’s almost embarrassing.”

“Where’d you get one?”

“You really think you smell the smoke.”

“I do smell it. Tell me or I’m cleaning the fridge out and going through your sock index.”

“Eight days ago. I had a smoke with a client while you were stuck in the tube. I haven’t had one since.”

“Have you? I’ll be checking the flat.”

“You’ll find nothing. Oh. And.” Sherlock grabbed John’s work bag from John's shoulder and slung it over his own. He captured John’s hand and tugged John forward as he leaned down and whispered into John’s ear. “You need to act like an Omega for at least ten minutes.”

“Act like an Omega?” John hissed back.

Act like an Omega. There was some truth to it.

Almost all the Omegas John had had the joy of meeting tended to one of the two extremes, they were either extremely pliant, hanging onto their Alpha for dear life, or acted like superior demanding cunts.

There were others like John but they were few and far between. Not that he blamed any Omega even if he could hardly stand them. When someone was conditioned to fill the exciting roles of broodmare and prized possession there wasn’t much flexibility for personality. 

Sherlock ignored his question and led the two of them through the front doors, not giving John a moment to protest.

Neutralizer furled out from the sides of the doors as they stepped into the lobby. Two attendants greeted them and offered to have their bags carried. Sherlock dismissed them with a sharp wave and tugged John forward, shifting his grip and weaving their fingers together.

The pale pink walls and soft lighting made John frown. A copious amount of plush seating decorated the open floor space along with tea trays covered with sweets. More neutralizer lazily spilled out of diffusers attached to the floor trimming. This wasn’t a normal hotel.

“Sherlock, this is an Omega hotel,” John said, sliding up against Sherlock’s shoulder and keeping his voice down.

“I thought you’d notice sooner,” Sherlock said, leaning down into him.

The two of them looked like a proper couple to anyone watching. John glanced briefly at the other occupants. He had originally thought they had just tucked into the lobby for varying reasons but actually looking and then seeing; it was obvious they were security.

“Why are we at an Omega hotel?”

“Case, John.”

“Yes, but.”

“Here we are,” Sherlock said, drawing them up to the reception desk. “Hello!”

A fake grin broke across Sherlock’s face and John held back a groan. It was going to be one of those sham interviews.

The Beta receptionist, Jenny her name tag said, brightened and gave Sherlock a full wattage of a smile. “Good afternoon,” she said.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock echoed. “Sorry, just wanted to check, that you must have an Omega to check in here?”

“Yes, sir,” Jenny said. “We require documentation.”

“Excellent! We were just worried." Sherlock tugged John forward and John let himself be pulled flush against Sherlock’s coat. “We didn’t want to be somewhere with. Well. You know, don’t you?”

“Of course, that’s why we insist on the policy.” She made sure to look at John and smile. John gave a bemused smile back. “We want our Omegas to have a safe and comfortable experience.”

“Good. Good,” Sherlock said.

“If I could see the IDs now?”

“Right! No worries.”

Sherlock flicked out his ID and then reached into John’s back pocket and fished out his wallet. He placed both IDs on the counter and Jenny mumbled thanks as she typed on her keyboard. She hardly glanced at Sherlock’s ID and focused solely on John’s. She ran it through a card reader obscured under the desk and offered both of them back.

“Everything checks out! Wonderful to have you both here. Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Afraid we don’t. We were hoping to catch a break. This place came highly recommended.”

“Oh." She frowned slightly. “We’re a bit full up. Bookings are generally done weeks out in advance. I can recommend another Omega hotel.”

“We can’t just get into a cheeky Beta room, can we?”

“Sorry, sir. This is an Omega hotel. We have no Beta rooms.”

“That’s a shame, but no matter.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, letting go of John’s. “We’ve been called in to consult with the police.”

“What?” Her eyes flicked to John. “But, sir, you have an Omega here with you.”

“What floor are they on?”

“I’m not sure—”

“There’s no reason to protest.” Sherlock flicked out a police badge. “Tell us the room before Dr. Watson decides to seek compensation for your clearly antiquated viewpoints on Omegas in the workforce.”

“Doctor?” Jenny asked weakly.

“Doctor Watson,” John answered with a slight nod.

“Um,” Jenny said. She blinked at the ID and her face grew paler. “Sorry, sirs. Suite 502.”

“Which lift do we use?” Sherlock asked as he held his hand out. “An activation key.”

Jenny offered up a card with a rather resigned expression. “Down the hallway, third on the left.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said and the smile dropped off his face. “Come along, Dr. Watson.”

“Sorry about him,” John said as he moved to follow.

“Wait. Please don’t make a complaint,” Jenny rushed out. “You’re just the first Omega I’ve ever had come in with a job. It’s just a bit of a shock, really.”

“Right. Have a good day,” John said. He quickly walked away before she could say more and caught up to Sherlock who was already headed to the lift.

John cleared his throat as Sherlock activated the lift and the doors started to open.

“That. Back there. Was good,” John said.

“Hm.” Sherlock offered a quick smirk. “I was, wasn’t I?”

They entered the lift and the doors slid close. There was no floor to select and no floor indicator above the door.

“It goes straight to the booked room,” Sherlock said. “I would have assumed you’d be familiar with these establishments.”

John would if he wanted to get off with Alphas. An Omega hotel would have been a requirement. The pheromones from unbonded A/O couples during sex was like a walking neon advertisement of ‘here is an unbonded Omega getting buggered by an Alpha, come get a piece of it while you still can’. It was a holdover from evolution that had never been nipped in the bud and was extremely inconvenient. The amount of neutralizer and perfumes needed to cover it was excessive and expensive.

“How do you know?” John asked, ignoring the implied question.

“It's common sense,” Sherlock said. “Can’t have one A/O couple running into another. It’d be rather exciting. We’d probably see more murders. A bit of a shame.”

“Just a bit,” John said. “And that’s Greg’s badge again, then?

“Who else?” Sherlock showed off the badge like a prize.

John flicked it. “Does he know you nicked it?”

“Borrowed it when he was being pedantic about paperwork.”

“That’d be a no then.”

“He noticed eventually. He told me to return it at once this morning.”

John let out an incredulous laugh. “Did he?”

“Was very insistent,” Sherlock said.

“And at the same time asked you to show up to an active crime scene.”

“It is hardly my fault Lestrade chose to spend his morning looking at a corpse.”

“Oh, God. You invited us along. To a crime scene at an Omega hotel.”

Sherlock looked utterly gleeful as he rocked back on his heels. “A murdered Omega, John!”

John couldn’t help the near fond expression that stole over his face at Sherlock’s excitement. “Like Christmas, is it then?”

“Exactly! Better than Christmas. The last Omega murdered in the UK was thirty years ago and it was boring. An Alpha went into a possessive rage. This one looks like it’s going to be much more promising.”

John nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. “Try to look a bit less happy about it. We can’t be happy showing up to look at a dead Omega.”

The lift pinged and opened to a very small hallway with a sleek black door and a fingerprint scanner for a lock. Sherlock pressed John’s fingers into the scanner before John managed a protest and held them there until it lit up green and popped the lock. Sherlock let go of John’s hand and stepped into a hotel suite that ate up the entire floor.

“You already have a theory, then?” John asked, following him in.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say a theory,” Sherlock murmured and took in the scene.

Members of the yard were scattered about, more than John had ever seen in one place before, poking at random objects with industrial filter masks strapped over their faces. He supposed that’s what a dead Omega meant—if you died suddenly a lot of people had to pretend to care.

Briefly, John wondered what would have happened if he had gone through with blowing his brains out when he was invalidated. Nothing much, he figured. Just a sensational headline until something else caught the spotlight. Sherlock wouldn’t have even read anything about it. Suicides were boring.

Government-issued deodorizers with the Yard’s emblem puffed out neutralizer in timed intervals and quickly worked to erase any natural sent John and Sherlock were still carrying. John wrinkled his nose. The flat, artificial man-made scent itched at him, like someone scrubbing a bit too hard. Just another box to tick for the ‘suppressants are failing’ list.

Lestrade spotted them and met them at the entrance, halting them from going further into the room.

“Oh, look who showed up,” Lestrade said, his voice muffled by the mask. “Badge, Sherlock. Then off you get.”

“Absolutely not. You need my help,” Sherlock said.

“Nah. We’ve got it all sorted.”

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock flicked his eyes over Lestrade, gearing up for a deduction. John pressed his lips together and waited for Sherlock to get on with it. “Your hands are shaking slightly. You’ve had too much caffeine in a short amount of time. Heavy bags under your eyes, not sleeping then, coffee to stay awake. Creases on your clothes, tie loosened from stress, cuffs undone, shirt rolled up—you’ve been on this case for at least a full twenty-four hours, you normally let yourself indulge in four hours of sleep during stressful cases. Pressure from above, then, to get this sorted as fast as possible, you’ve taken a few kips against the wall, you keep touching your neck, got a crick in it. You don’t have this sorted one bit.”

“This is delicate, you just.” Lestrade made a helpless gesture.

“You can’t get access to the footage of the lobby or lift because the UK considers their Omegas to be national treasures and any information is blocked by more red tape than trying to get a personal audience with the Queen. This hotel legally can’t keep any record of the Omegas they service and by the amount of time the receptionist spent looking at my ID they could care less about the Alphas that come in. You have an unidentified brutalized Omega with no record of the Alpha who accompanied them. Am I right?” Sherlock had advanced as he talked and was near looming over Lestrade.

“Christ. Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

“What have you found?”

Lestrade sighed, giving in. “We found some hair. Looks like the Alpha that came with him took a shower. We’re running the DNA. But that could be another two days before we see matches. Lucky for us, all Alphas are required to be registered.”

“And you have nothing else.”

“If you want a go at the body you’re wearing a mask and suiting up,” Lestrade warned. “I’m not dealing with that brother of yours if you go tits up over a dead Omega.”

“Really, George.”

“Shut it. You do this or you piss off. Really.”

Sherlock said nothing for a few moments. He regarded Lestrade. “Fine,” Sherlock conceded.

“Stay here, Sherlock,” Lestrade emphasized. “Please make sure he stays, John.”

“No problem,” John said.

“I’m going to get sacked,” Lestrade muttered as he walked away to get them masks and suit covers.

“I’m not a dog,” Sherlock said after him. “Honestly. I have more brainpower than everyone in this room combined. ‘Stay here, Sherlock,'” Sherlock exaggeratedly mimicked.

John looked at Sherlock and grinned. “Who’s a good boy?”

“John.”

“I think your training has been coming along very well, hasn’t it? You haven’t gone off to bark at Anderson.”

“A murdered Omega deserves the patience with incompetence.”

“Not sure if I can have this training exercise ready for you every day.”

“Please refrain from making jokes at crime scenes,” Sherlock deadpanned. “It’s bad for my image as a consulting dog.”

John and Sherlock shared amused grins.

Lestrade returned with two masks in hand, and suits draped over his left arm. “Here you go, then.”

Sherlock snatched up the offered mask. He adjusted the straps before putting it on and turning to fuss with his hair in the mirror above the shoe rack. Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s back. He foisted the other mask at John.

John shook his head. “I don’t need one,” he said.

“If you want to come in you do.”

John crossed his arms. “I’m not an Alpha.”

“If something happens to you while I’m in charge I really am going to be sacked,” Lestrade said. “I need some peace of mind.”

Sherlock grabbed the mask and dumped it on John’s head before taking one of the suits and slipping into it with grace that should never be afforded a man. Carefully, John slid his own mask on and then suited up.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it lads?” Lestrade said with a half-grin.

“You’re not wearing one?” John asked.

“Already had my go at it.”

“The body,” Sherlock said.

John almost heard a please at the end of it.

“Right, this way, then,” Lestrade said.

Lestrade led the two of them into the bedroom. The scene had been fully set up, floodlights chasing the dim of the overcast skies out. Anderson and Donovan confided over notes with a few more Yarders John failed to recognize by the windows.

John crossed his arms, stood with his back to the wall, and let himself look.

The dead male Omega was curled up on his side. Dried, opaque slick freckled his thighs and stomach and cock and spotted down his legs. The sheets under him were dark and still damp. His head faced towards the window in a completely unnatural position, his neck had to be broken. Probably the cause of death. Often it was the obvious as much as Sherlock postured.

Heat flush colored in the baby fat clinging to the Omega’s face. There wasn’t a single wrinkle to spot. Christ. He’d be young. Of course, he had to be. John could count the amount of unbonded Omegas he knew over twenty in the UK on one hand. This was probably only his second or third heat.

John let out a breath.

He had seen worse, he reminded himself. Much worse.

Lestrade joined him as Sherlock circled the body. “Was a bit shocking to get a call for this,” Lestrade said. “This is the first Omega I’ve ever been called in on. Have you ever?”

“Not here,” John said.

“In the Army?” Lestrade asked.

A twisted smile crossed John’s face. “The ratio over there is a bit better, not by much but enough to make a difference. They didn’t decimate their Omega population with chemical bombs in the World Wars. But we found them sometimes on patrol. You know how easy it is for an Alpha to go feral in a war zone?”

“Sure. Every Alpha in the Yard is required to sit through weekly psychotherapy appointments.” Lestrade made a face. “Let me tell you how fun those are."

“It was rare, a day going by where we didn’t see a feral on patrol or see one of our own starting to show symptoms. If an Omega presented anywhere that wasn’t, well, protected, you’d find their body. It’d just be left out. Along with a few shot up Alphas.”

“Shite.”

John shrugged. “Yeah. Is a bit.” 

It was harder to deal with the dead Omega in this room if John was honest with himself. In Afghanistan, everything was always just a bit fucked. It was expected.

Not in London.

This Omega, this dead Omega, had made reservations in an Omega hotel designed specifically for Omega safety. There were body guards stationed throughout the first floor, the required check-in, the multi-lock system John had seen on the front door, and emergency buzzers attached under most of the furniture; all things that were supposed to ensure an uneventful heat. Yet, because he had been in heat and completely and utterly reliant on an Alpha to tend to him, to keep him safe, he had died. 

John forced himself to focus on something else. Sherlock was an easy target, even as he made simple checks over the body, he moved with a confident flourish that emphasized his features. Quickly into their friendship John had learned how to not look too closely.

Otherwise, he noticed.

Sherlock had very well established he was married to the Work.

It was all fine.

Sherlock adjusted his gloves and scrutinized the clothing on the floor, taking in every stitch and crease with his magnifying glass. John simply refused to notice how tight the white coveralls stretched over Sherlock’s thighs and arse as he squatted. Blokes never noticed that about their best mates. If they did, they best had not be caught staring and with Sherlock there’d be no way around it.

Sherlock slid his fingers, thin and long and always in motion, along the seams before abandoning them and focusing back on the body. He fiddled with a rubber scent guard still strapped to the Omega’s neck until it popped loose and spent a minute prodding at the engorged scent gland under it.

Another thing John would need to buy. He hadn’t even thought about a guard. Not that it would do anything. An Alpha could just rip it right off. An Alpha could just kill him.

John ran his hand under the mask’s straps. They felt too tight.

Sherlock secured the guard back in place and stalked over to where John and Lestrade were watching.

“Where are the heat aids?” Sherlock demanded.

“Aids?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Yes. The heat aids. I’m assuming when your estranged wife helped you through your ruts the two of you utilized some of the varied aids available to A/B couples.”

“That’s a bit personal.”

“Heat aids! Where are they?” Sherlock insisted.

“Why would they need any?” Lestrade asked back. “Isn’t everything supposed to fit?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “Your eloquence astounds me. Is everything supposed to fit! They weren’t planning on bonding, obviously! They would have selected a much more socially accepted location. Do any of you think? The guard doesn’t have any teeth marks! There should be an artificial scent gland to stimulate biting during the bonding process. It should provide a nice set of teeth impressions that would be much faster to match then waiting on DNA.”

“Alright. What else should we be looking for?”

“How did you get assigned to a murdered Omega case when you are clearly lacking basic knowledge on heats? Astounding.”

“Oy! I have one of the highest solved rates!”

“Oh, I wonder how that happened?”

“And how do you know anything about it?”

“My family is considered to be among the gentry,” Sherlock responded, almost stiffly. “And I am an Alpha.”

“You’ve shared a heat?” John interrupted.

“Have you?” Lestrade asked.

“It was tedious and an extraordinary waste of time,” Sherlock said.

“You lucky bastard,” Lestrade said.

“Hardly. My brain almost atrophied and was unable to process anything besides basic sensory output.”

“Only you would say getting your brains shagged out by an Omega would be a negative.” Lestrade turned to John. “Can you believe it?”

“You don’t?” John volleyed back.

Lestrade snorted. “Right. Let me hear it, then.”

“Good. The imitation scent gland, a knot strap and—”

John cleared his throat, interrupting. “That’s wrong,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said, dragging it out. “I’m not wrong.”

“You are. Well.” John stopped. “Those are things an Alpha would want for their first rut and,” John cut himself off.

He remembered the straps meant to hold him still, the gag to keep him silent if he got too loud, and the gloves with extra-thick rubber tips. It was all to keep him from harming himself, the doctor had said as he laid them out. They didn’t want him biting his tongue off or mauling the Alpha or scraping away any skin and making an actual bloody mess.

“The heat you shared,” John said, “it was a widow, yeah? Probably someone double your age?”

“Thirty-five. Nineteen years,” Sherlock said. His focus shifted intensely to John as if waiting for a parlor trick. “Her husband had died prior in a car wreck.”

“Alright. Well. That poor sod isn’t.” John nodded towards the body. “It’s probably changed very little since I was that young. So. There should be straps, the doctors used to recommend those up to a year.”

“I said knot straps.”

“No. Straps to tie him down.”

“Straps?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. “Really?”

“Or rope, the kind of stuff you’d see at scenes.”

“Doctor recommended?”

“To keep the Omega from injuring themselves in a haze, I suspect,” Sherlock said. “Are you going to make him repeat everything? He’s clearly uncomfortable discussing this.”

John grimaced. “You didn’t need to say it. Ta.”

Lestrade looked at him then. It was eerily similar to how Sherlock was examining him. John forced out a smile. It wasn’t any of their business.

“Right.” Lestrade pulled out a notebook. “What else?”

“Gloves.”

“Okay.”

“A gag.”

Lestrade stopped writing, an incredulous expression covering his face. “Now, I expect him to take a piss, but really?”

“Probably a cloth one,” John said with a light shrug. He hoped the dead Omega had used a cloth gag.

“The Omega brought a ball gag to our session and offered it,” Sherlock chimed in. “It was unappealing.”

The Alpha years ago had stuffed the ball gag straight into John’s mouth the second he had John tied up and left it in for hours. It had made saliva drip down his chin and chest and trapped his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. He hadn’t been able to say anything.

“Why? How can that be good for anyone?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve been told, that if nothing else, the British have tradition.”

Sherlock spun back around to the body and muttered under his breath, going through several deductions that John caught snippets of. “Good Omega,” Sherlock said as if testing the words out.

The words hit John over the head. His breath stuttered. He remembered the heavy body above him, larger and thicker, forcing him still, telling him to just be good. That all he needed to be was good. That he’d be taken care of. While tied down. While gagged. Just be good. And he had loved it. Those words erased everything. Good Omega.

John scraped at the mask straps.

“John?” Lestrade asked, concerned. He reached to touch John’s shoulder and steady him.

“Right.” John backed away. The hallway would be fine. He’d be able to sit down. Breathe some fresh air. “Sorry. Just going to step out for a bit.”

It was just the mask. John assured himself. If he was able to scent anything, it would all be fine. Studies that had come out in the ’90s had shown it traumatized Omegas more when deprived of natural pheromones.

Someone tried to catch his elbow as John turned. He avoided it. An Alpha holding him still was the last thing he needed. He just needed to make it to the hallway and get out of the room.

John managed to beeline it. He ripped off his mask and gulped down the air in the hallway. Everything smelled stale and empty and not real. He tore open the suit and shoved it off before grasping at Sherlock’s scarf. He shoved it into his nose.

He inhaled. Once. Twice and slumped against the wall. The scent of Sherlock and home nestled against him, driving away from the blank of the hotel. He wrapped it tighter and stuffed some of it in his mouth, trying to take in as much as possible.

A large, warm hand grasped the back of his neck, fingers just brushing against his scent gland and another gently pried the scarf away. John kept his eyes closed. Seeing the judgment would be too much. This was already a cock-up. The hand urged John forward until his nose was firmly nestled in a warm neck and fully curled into a larger body.

Sherlock.

“Breathe, John. With me,” Sherlock instructed. “In.”

John breathed in.

“Good. Out. In.”

John obeyed, letting Sherlock think for him. An Alpha, Lestrade, John realized, crouched down next to them. He couldn’t remember how he got on the ground.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” Lestrade asked.

“That would be a waste of everyone’s time,” Sherlock rumbled.

Lestrade shifted. “How can I help?”

“His bag, I left it in the foyer. Out, John, really.”

John exhaled and Sherlock continued to instruct John on breathing until Lestrade came back; as if talking John through a panic attack was an everyday occurrence.

“And tea, thanks,” Sherlock said as Lestrade dropped the bag next to them.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t give the hospital a call?”

“Who would that help?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sorry. I’ll go get a cuppa.”

Sherlock kept a firm grip on John’s neck, forcing John to continually breathe in Sherlock’s scent as Lestrade left again. Sherlock ran his free hand up and down John’s back and to the scent glands on his wrists, giving each a firm rub. It was startling how comforting it was. The last person John remembered doing that was his mum.

“Shall I deduce?” Sherlock asked. John breathed into Sherlock’s neck. “You came in a cab that turned onto the street from the south, if you’d been from Baker Street or the clinic it would have come down on the north end. Clearly, you were somewhere else—somewhere you didn’t bother to check your phone. You check texts when out on social occasions; both dates and pub outings with the lads. So, somewhere you found important. That leaves very little—potentially sex or a tragedy involving your sister. You hadn’t showered, or applied fresh cologne to cover the pheromones you produce after intercourse with your Betas and you didn’t carry Harry’s scent—that leaves an appointment of some sort. What kind of appointment would cause you to have a panic attack on a rather bland murder scene? Well. Obvious. You saw your Omega specialist and learned something rather disruptive pertaining to your second gender and the dead Omega triggered it. As to what.”

Sherlock used his free hand to hunt around in John’s bag. He kept at it until he discovered the flyers John had shoved all the way down to the bottom and pulled them out. Sherlock regarded them with little care before discarding them.

“Your suppressants. You are worried you’ll end up like our murder victim.”

Sherlock lapsed into silence and John had nothing to say that wouldn’t confirm it.

“You know, John, that I would—”

The lift pinged open.

Lestrade strode over and bent down again. He placed a paper cup on the floor. Sherlock picked it up and wrinkled his nose.

“What did you bring?” Sherlock asked, slightly stumped.

“What do you mean? I brought a cuppa,” Lestrade answered.

“No, you brought some horrid fruit nonsense.”

“The lady at the desk said it was the most preferred—”

“Does John look like the sort who enjoys fruit tea?”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Go get another cup,” Sherlock demanded.

“If you wanted something specific you should have said!”

“I gave you simple instructions.”

Sherlock’s building anger and frustration tinted his scent with a sharp metallic twang, almost like fresh blood. The hair on the back of John’s neck prickled and the panic that had been receding began to build again.

It was a basic echo response to Sherlock’s shifting pheromones. Angry Alpha translated to danger and a pathetic part of John’s Omega instincts were failing to understand that Sherlock was only upset at a bloody cup of tea.

Sherlock cut himself off. He grabbed John’s face between his hands and forced their eyes to meet. He pursued John’s face, searching for something that he must have found as the corners of his mouth tucked up into a quick, real smile. He squeezed John’s shoulders before shifting John to be propped up against the wall rather than Sherlock’s own body.

“Apologies, John,” Sherlock said. John almost thought he sounded chagrined. “I’ll go get the tea. Sit with him,” Sherlock instructed Lestrade as he stood up.

“Er.” Lestrade looked uncomfortable.

“Is that really difficult for you?”

“What do I do?”

Sherlock regarded Lestrade with a combination of disbelief and irritation. He stalked up to Lestrade and towered over him. “John Watson has been an Omega the entire time you’ve known him. He had a panic attack, just like you did three years ago behind a skip after finding two strung up boys. Nothing has changed,” Sherlock hissed out.

“Sherlock.”

“I would refrain from speaking. You are downgrading your intelligence. I don’t know why I expect better from you.”

“But what?”

“Pick up a book on how to help an A/O after panic attacks, clearly. Rub his wrist, Lestrade. Just as you would an Alpha.” With that, Sherlock went into the lift.

Lestrade stood awkwardly for a few moments and muttered to himself before sighing. Gingerly, he joined John on the floor and gently, with very telegraphed movements, reached for John’s hand. He cradled John’s wrist and smoothed his thumb over the scent gland. The comfort it offered John was instant, like knowing his back was guarded by one of his army mates.

“Alright?”

John flashed Lestrade a small smile. “Ta,” John said, his voice wavering. He grimaced.

“You picked a good place to have one,” Lestrade offered, trying to fill the silence. “Mine smelled like weeks old rubbish and piss. Had to throw away that day’s suit, couldn’t get the filth off it. It's always the cases with the young kids that get me. The two kids strung up wasn’t even the most brutal one we’d worked on that year but it still hit.”

Lestrade continued talking about the case, never ceasing his movements. John settled into himself and let Lestrade’s voice turn into background noise. He rolled his head against the patterned wallpaper.

It was nonsense. Out of all the things, a murdered Omega. He’d been invalidated, strapped into bombs, kidnapped, drugged, shot at, and dealt with Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis.

John Watson did not have panic attacks.

He got on with it. 

Except.

Fear stuck itself in his throat.

John Watson owed his life to daily pills and scent covers. He’d built his life on being able to ignore everything that made him an Omega and he faced a growing chasm carved out by instincts he’d never had to properly deal with. And now, he was hurdling down into them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously noted, there is no beta and all mistakes are my own.

A heroin dealer sold John his first dose of suppressants in a plastic sandwich bag with Harry at his back, arms crossed and growling at anyone who got too close. They had left hand in hand, like little children waiting for their pissed da to show up, and crossed the street to the nearest telephone box. John made sure Harry still had the hospital number crumbled up in her pocket and he downed a capsule with a swig of coke.

Harry pulled him down to the pavement and they waited, huddled together. John had never known which of them had been more surprised that the pills hadn’t been some dodgy shite, causing him to OD on intake. 

The first legal ones had come in a slim pink plastic case because, God forbid, anything be in a more gender-neutral color, prescribed by an Alpha doctor who thought John was barking mad for going to university. The Alpha had even offered to bond him right there because it was such a shame John thought he needed a degree. John had threatened to report him. Even as a doctor, a general practitioner was too low class, and the Alpha knew it. 

John opened the medicine cabinet in the loo and grabbed his last pill packet. The pills had become smaller as he aged and the cases had changed into the cheap cardboard packaging like the rest of the drugs offered at the chemist's. His current packet had nine pills. Eight, if he downed one today. His thumb ran over the bumps. That was barely a week left. After that, he had a small cushion of time as his body worked through the extra hormones remaining in his system.

Even then, the ones he had left were barely working. Yesterday had proved that. His hormones were nearing free-range and bringing buried Omega instincts to the forefront. At least they were still inhibiting his personal scent production and he assumed his pheromones as Alphas hadn’t started to come on to him randomly off the street.

The real problem was his heat. If he had the pills, the beta-blockers in them would keep his heat limited to a day or two but after that. There was no start day for it. If he was bloody unlucky, the first real heat he’d had in decades could start the day after he stopped taking his suppressants. Or the day after that. Or the next. Or not for a few weeks. Maybe not for months; if he was lucky. Maybe. And that was utter rubbish. It just wasn’t an option to go into heat anywhere he pleased.

Being in heat was like needing to piss.

Constantly.

That was the best way John was able to describe it. The start of heat was like his mum telling him to use the loo before a long trip. The longer he waited, the closer he came to just dropping his trousers and letting go on the spot. It wouldn’t matter if he was shopping for milk at Tesco or on the tube—the oppressive need for relief would trump everything. That piss was a knot shoved up his arse by whatever Alpha happened to get to him first.

John gripped the sink and rocked himself, head bowed and eyes closed.

Going to heat in the middle of London was a no-win scenario.

John knew the logical solution. He had read plenty of studies on it. He had to find an Alpha and get them to fuck him. It would jump-start his heat. For the first few months, he’d need to rinse and repeat until his hormones fully leveled out enough to be charted.

He had not had sex with an Alpha for two decades. 

Slowly, he unfurled his grip on the sink and bent down to pick up the pill packet he apparently dropped. He wiped it clean on his undershirt and popped one of the pills out before tucking the packet away. He downed the pill with tap water and opened the door to come chest to chest with Sherlock.

The impulse to bare his neck to the Alpha drenching him in pheromones was immediate and scorching. His thoughts tumbled into incomprehensible smog as his head tilted to the right. He wanted Sherlock’s large hand to grasp his neck, to soothe his fingers against John’s flushing skin. All Sherlock did was stand and blink down at him. A whine built up and slipped from John’s mouth, small and hardly noticeable.

An utterly pathetic sound.

Shame curled up John’s neck, red and blotchy as he flexed his toes against the faded rug. John tried to clear his throat and failed. Another near whine slipped out and he quickly glanced at his feet. This was bloody embarrassing. He was supposed to have control over all these useless instincts.

He tried to shift his neck back up and the hair on his body stood up in alarm. It was like being held at gunpoint. He attempted to console himself with the fact this was expected. Exhibiting traditional Omega instincts was the first big bullet point in the literature he and Dr. Jones had been going through. Especially for Alphas that were in his ‘pack.’

Sherlock, as the only Alpha John spent any amount of time with, fell unequivocally into that category. John really should be surprised that showing off his scent gland hadn’t manifested when his suppressants began to diminish.

None of that was reassuring.

What if this happened when they were chasing a criminal or a nearby Alpha pumped out an excessive amount of pheromones? Would he just stop and bare his scent gland hoping to get an Alpha’s approval? Would he just stand here like this, frozen and arrested until some Alpha took control?

A second attempt from John to straighten his neck failed.

His father, Hamish, preferred that method. It was the only way he’d get John to show up to bondmate matches. He’d just grab a hold of John’s scent gland and drag him off or force him into a chair as some fucking rich cunt introduced themselves, nearly slobbering at the chance to touch him and smear their scents over his skin.

“We have an appointment scheduled,” Sherlock finally said, derailing John’s negative spiral. “I’ve already phoned a taxi.”

“Alright," John said. 

Sherlock still hadn’t touched him. He was supposed to. For some reason, it was utterly devastating.

“Is this to be a frequent occurrence?” Sherlock asked and gestured to John’s neck.

“Might be,” John admitted.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He oscillated minutely, something John had to be this close to notice, examining something. “This is where I’m supposed to offer help?” Sherlock asked after a stretch of silence.

John licked his lips. He had a very strong feeling if Sherlock walked away now, he’d be stuck like this until Sherlock’s scent faded. He trusted Sherlock.

He did.

“Just. Um,” John fumbled out.

He met Sherlock’s intent gaze and swallowed. Sherlock had experimented on him, attempted to drug him, exposed him to dangerous chemicals on a near-weekly basis, and was an overall dick when in one of his moods but never once had Sherlock used his Alpha to try to control him. He’d seen Sherlock walk into rooms filled with Alphas in his crisp suits and out dominate them all with pheromones and posturing. John was under no illusion. All Sherlock had to do was turn around and John would fall in line.

“Alright. Yeah,” John said. He tapped his neck, just above his scent gland. “Give it a bit of a press.”

Sherlock hesitated; his arm half stuck between the two of them.

“What you did the other day, that was nice,” John hurried out. “Just the firm grip.”

One of Sherlock’s hands situated itself on John’s lower back, tugging him across the centimeter of a chasm between them. The other slid up John’s clavicle until Sherlock’s fingers pressed straight into John’s scent gland.

Relief flooded him. He sagged into Sherlock, letting Sherlock carry his weight, and bit his tongue to keep whatever embarrassing noise he was about to make silent.

If he had been bit the endorphins currently dumping into his bloodstream would have been doubled to override any discomfort. For better or for worse almost any instinctual interaction between an A/O couple was designed to reward both with an excessive number of endorphins to encourage the behavior.

Sherlock was dealing with his own unique cocktail. Once he had pressed down on John’s neck, John’s body released pheromones designed to entice him. Something akin to smelling fresh hot chips while on the pavement with the damp of London settling in—head-turning and utterly luring.

“Father used to do this for Mummy,” Sherlock said with a punched out quality to his voice. “He’d drop everything the moment she asked. I thought it would be excessively tedious to prioritize this, but the pheromones you release is—it’s obvious why Omega pheromones are over 10,000 euros per gram.”

John let out a startled laugh. “Try to buy some once?”

Sherlock started kneading John’s neck. John glanced up at him. He seemed completely unaware as he continued to talk.

“Please. Mycroft would have noticed far sooner if I pulled that much out of my accounts on a frequent basis. The withdrawal process for an Alpha is excessively brutal if they do become dependent. I have always sought to expand my mind, not hinder it,” Sherlock said.

“A case?”

“Yes. Mind-numbly simple to solve. They only called me in because an Omega brought in the case. A missing Alpha who had developed an addiction to Omega pheromones. His bondmate had had cancer and had opted to have their scent glands surgically removed for a higher chance of survival. The Alpha was being held ransom by his dealer—apparently over 700k in debt and in withdrawal when I uncovered him. He was in a bad way.”

The relief offered by Sherlock’s touch shifted from comforting to the first warm hum of arousal. John cursed himself out in his head. What would he say if Sherlock noticed? There was no way it would go well. John caught Sherlock’s hand and forced it still. He cleared his throat to banish a whine he felt building at the loss, praying Sherlock kept his gaze forward and not down.

“Um. Thanks. I’m good. You said you’d phoned a taxi?”

“Hm. Yes,” Sherlock said. He stepped back into the hallway and checked his phone. “Five minutes. Best hop to it. Unless you fancy a trip across London in your pajamas.”

“Maybe I should opt for a sheet. Since that was good enough for the Queen.”

Sherlock smirked. “Only if you plan to steal an ashtray.”

John snorted and pushed past Sherlock to head to his room. He dressed quickly and with utter precision applied his scent neutralizers and Beta cologne. Those two steps were the most important part of maintaining a Beta front. As long as he scented like one, most people never looked twice. He gave himself a once over and joined Sherlock on the pavement.

Nothing in the shop had a price tag. Cautiously, John let go of the suit he’d been examining. He tucked his hands behind his back and kept them there as he and Sherlock waited for a fitting room.

“Most of the suits on display will be in the range of two-thousand pounds,” Sherlock said, joining him. “Custom, of course, will run you quite a bit more.”

“Is that how much you pay for yours?” John asked.

“My suits are not off the rack.”

Of course, they weren’t. John wasn’t blind. He saw what Sherlock’s clothes did for him. Vain Alpha.

“And I am here, why?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock.

“We certainly couldn’t do this at Tesco,” Sherlock replied.

“No. But why’d you suddenly fancy a shopping trip? Two weeks ago, you said my clothing looked like and I quote ‘the rejects from the bottom of the bargain bin at a charity shop after the sale.’ Remember that bit?”

“They didn’t trust my measurements,” Sherlock grumbled. “And it's lacking. I find your clothing lacking. You buy what’s cheap. You really need to learn how to do yourself more favors. It would certainly help you attract more of those dull Beta women you’re so very fond of.”

“Ta. Not all of us have trust funds to dip into,” John said dryly. “And some of us want to look, I don’t know.”

“Normal. That’s the word you were going to say before you decided it might offend me and couldn’t think of a replacement fast enough.”

“Alright. Normal. I want to look like a normal bloke. Nothing wrong with that.”

“It certainly works for most of the idiot populace.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why am I here?”

“They need to check your measurements before putting in the final stitching.”

“Mine?” John sputtered.

“I’ve already paid for it.”

“Oh. Well. No problem then. Absolutely none.” John paused. No. There were a lot of problems. “Why are you buying me a bespoke suit?”

“Think. The case, John. The only suit you own was one you wore to your sister’s wedding. It's horrid and ill-fitting.”

John scratched at his face. Harry had had an unofficial ceremony in the '90s before it was legal. He honestly hadn’t even looked at it since he’d worn it for the event.

“I have my service dress.”

“Which has been in a travel bag since you moved in. You haven’t taken it out once since you arrived in London. Not very keen to wear it, are you?”

“Point,” John conceded. “But this place is a bit much, isn’t it? We could have gone to. I don’t know. Harold’s. They have nice suits.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you insulting me?”

“Just your taste. Not to worry. I’m quite aware you don’t know any better.”

John moved his jaw drifting between offended and amused.

“Have you seen any you like?” Sherlock asked.

“Any what?”

“Suits.”

“Haven’t spent that much time looking at them, to be honest. Had a gander at the ties." John shrugged. “Don’t really need any of those, now, do I?”

“No. You wouldn’t.”

“Git. You know,” John said, leaning in so only Sherlock heard. “You could’ve told me to dress up a bit.”

“What for?”

“Look at what I’m wearing, Sherlock.”

“A day-old shirt off your floor, the striped jumper that’s passable, the jeans Harry gave you last Christmas, and your favorite pair of shoes with red socks. Did I miss anything? You’re wearing pants, aren’t you?”

“Christ. Of course, I’m wearing pants."

“You never know. It’s still all a la mode to go bare in some circles. I believe it is called 'free balling it.'”

“Well, not mine. Are you wearing pants? Is that how you get away with your trousers being so tight?”

“You think my trousers are tight,” Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow.

John blustered. He hadn’t meant to say that. Not at all. “Well, are you?” John doubled down. If he acted normal, hopefully, Sherlock would just accept the question at face value.

“Mr. and Mr. Holmes?” A male voice interrupted.

John turned around in surprise, Sherlock mirroring him.

“Good afternoon. My name is Noah,” Noah said, holding his hand out. He wore a three-piece suit, like all the other shop employees, and two tape measures hung around his neck. “I’m one of the in-house cutters. I’ll be the one going over the measurements with you today.”

John shook Noah’s hand with a firm clasp. A mistake, John realized; Noah was an Alpha and he proceeded to slide his hand up to John’s forearm and rub their wrists together in a traditional Alpha greeting, introducing their scents together.

The diffusers humming in the background kept Noah’s scent from really sticking unless John wanted to have a gander at his sleeve. It was a bit of a relief. It confirmed that people still read John as Beta—no Alpha would dream of doing that handshake with an Omega. John held the grip and as soon as it was polite to, he dropped it with a bland smile.

Sherlock followed suit as John tapped his pockets down until he found a packet of Scent Me Not. They were small stickers coated in trace amounts of paralyzing gel that momentarily curbed scent production. He always carried them around just in case.

Discreetly, John removed the backing and attached one Scent Me Not to his wrist. He should have used them yesterday. Lestrade had sat with him for a good fifteen minutes before Sherlock returned, enough time for John to completely cover him. He had to have gone home reeking of Omega. John should apologize. Did he send a card? He wasn’t sure what he’d put in it.

“If you’d follow me,” Noah said, beckoning them to the back of the shop.

Noah led them through a wooden door and into a posh dressing room. A set of mirrors curved around the back wall and a privacy screen stood on the left. Two suits hung from a clothes rack, one dark blue and the other a pale gray, both with large white stitching along the seams.

“If you’d step behind the screen and strip down, we can get started. Which would you like first? The gray or navy?”

“Navy, I should think,” Sherlock said. He took his coat off and draped it over the back of one of the two chairs in the room. He sat down and leaned forward, utterly focused on the two of them.

“Good place to start, Mr. Holmes,” Noah said.

With care, Noah selected the navy suit and stood by the privacy screen. John stepped behind it and stripped without fanfare. He dressed in the order Noah handed the suit over; trousers, followed by a crisp white shirt and the jacket.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t come into an earlier fitting,” Noah said to John as he stepped out. “Normally, this would be the third one, to tighten everything up.”

“How long does it normally take?” John asked. He turned towards the mirrors.

“Three to four months,” Noah said. He circled around John. “We’ve had your suits on hand for much longer.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. Almost a year.”

John shot a look at Sherlock. “You said this was for a case.”

“I made the order when it was clear you would continue to assist me with the work. Fortuitous, seeing as our current case is dealing with the upper echelons of society and we would not have had the time to wait.”

Noah motioned for John to stretch his arms straight out and John obeyed. Noah fussed with the collars and his scent drifted up. It was sweet, like a forgotten apple rotting on the counter. That particular note of cloying had suffocated John’s childhood and followed him into his adulthood with Harry. It's why he found it so difficult to be in the same room as her, even when his suppressants had been working. The two of them were already haunted with notes of Hamish in their personal scents and it was worse when Harry drenched herself with booze. Apparently, the dredges of John’s suppressants were just completely tits up. Scents shouldn’t be affecting him this much.

“Roll your shoulders back,” Noah instructed. “Does it feel tight anywhere?”

John moved his shoulders without pause. “Seems good.”

“Good, good.”

The too-sweet scent stuck to the fabric as Noah continued to go over the seams. Worry crawled along John’s skin, slow and arresting. He let out a breath. The Alpha was just doing his job. Hamish wasn’t here. John clenched his fists. He was not going to have two panic attacks in just as many days. His useless Omega instincts were throwing a fit over absolutely nothing. This wouldn’t bother a Beta. Or an Alpha. It shouldn’t bother John.

“We could go smaller here,” Noah said. “You do have wide shoulders for your stature, but if we went thinner it would emphasize your slim figure.”

John was a boy again. Hamish was leaning over him, yanking him by his collar. The cloying, sickly scent drowned him, pouring down his throat like sand, forcing him to choke. John made some sort of noise and then Sherlock was there, dragging his own scent glands over every spot Noah had touched until it was just Sherlock. John breathed through his mouth.

Noah waited by the side patiently, a knowing expression on his face.

“Off a fresh mating?” Noah asked as Sherlock stepped back.

John nearly sagged in relief. Noah just thought Sherlock was being possessive of him because they had shagged recently. It was one of the few times Alphas particularities were still catered to because outside of drugging them off their tits there was no answer. On the downside, he thought they were shagging. John would take it. Not like everyone already thought they were anyways.

“Sorry,” John said, not answering the question. He cleared his throat. “Won’t happen again.”

“Alright with me having another go?”

“Alright,” John answered.

“I want you to move your arms out in front, I think we need to taper in a side seam.”

Sherlock’s phone rang. He silenced it and John stretched his arm out. Noah pinched some of the fabric under John’s armpit and instructed him to repeat the movement. Sherlock’s phone rang again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sherlock hissed and yanked out his phone. “I’m busy,” Sherlock snapped into the call. “Stop bothering me.”

“Is Mr. Holmes alright?” Noah asked. He threaded several pins in the back of the jacket.

“I’d say he’s in one of his better moods,” John said.

John watched Sherlock from the mirror, brow furrowed. He was still on the phone and listening attentively in a way he only got when on a case. The phone call ended and Sherlock started tapping out a text.

“Change of plans, John. We get to have a test run,” Sherlock said. He looked at Noah. “The plaid suit, I need it looking finished in an hour.”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible, Mr. Holmes,” Noah answered. 

“It doesn’t need to be actually finished. I need it to look finished—don’t bother with the lining, just get the hems done up. People never actually look.”

Noah grimaced a smile. “Let me check with one of our tailors, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be right back, Mr. Holmes,” Noah said to John.

“Hm. You know,” John said when Noah had left. “Now that I’ve had about twenty minutes to think about it, I think I like Watson over Holmes. Mr. and Mr. Watson sounds much better than Mr. and Mr. Holmes.”

“Mummy would never allow it,” Sherlock said, continuing to text. “It’d have to be Holmes-Watson. If you wanted to keep your last name.”

“Well, that sounds rather rubbish, doesn’t it? Watson-Holmes is better.”

“Possibly.”

“You get to tell Mycroft. I’m not having that conversation.”

“I’m sure he’ll be properly scandalized that we’ve gotten engaged and married in the last five minutes in a fitting room on Savile Row.”

“I’m sure he’ll be right chuffed. We should have done Harold’s.”

“We can do that tomorrow.”

“You get to do the announcement cards. My handwriting is rubbish.”

“Agreed. You’d pick out cheap cardstock.”

“Be nice to your new husband. I’m already thinking about petitioning for a divorce. Would Mycroft even let me? Or would I end up in a skip?”

“The Thames, more likely.”

“I think I’ve rethought this whole marriage thing. Too much risk marrying into the Holmes.”

“You’d never be bored.”

“Until I ended up in the Thames. That seems dull. You think he could arrange for something a bit more exotic?”

Sherlock laughed, warm and bright and delighted. His pheromones spilled out into the room, teasing at John and lighting him up. Happy Alpha meant happy Omega and John relished in it. He joined in with his own giggles.

The plaid suit fit near perfectly. John did up the white buttons. The fabric was a lush emerald green and dark blue. He pulled out the cuffs. He looked quite fit.

“Oh, good. It looks presentable,” Sherlock said, coming into the room, a long and thin wooden box tucked under his arm.

“You have wonderful taste, Mr. Holmes,” Noah said.

“That was never a question,” Sherlock said.

“Modest,” John chipped in.

“If you need anything else, Mr. and Mr. Holmes, I’ll be out on the floor,” Noah said.

“Ta,” John said.

“Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrected absentmindedly as he fussed with the box on the chair.

Sherlock popped open the box behind him.

“Hold still, John,” Sherlock instructed.

John obeyed and then stared down, completely surprised.

Several rows of light blue sapphires draped across his chest, shoulder to shoulder. The strands connected in the back at the top of John’s spine where it tapered into a long elaborate silver chain that dripped smaller sapphires until it ended at a detailed crest, resting just above his arse. John had never expected to wear an O-Lariat in his lifetime. They were for bonded Omegas.

The necklaces flipped the traditional lariat styles Beta women wore; the long strand fell down the back instead of the front, often all the way down to the bum, and boasted elaborate collars or bibs. They had been called leashes up until the 1950s when Queen Elizabeth took the throne and had an interview where she lambasted the name.

“No good?” Sherlock asked from his shoulder after John failed to say anything.

“Is this real?” John asked faintly. He was scared to touch it.

Sherlock looked offended. “Of course, we’d hardly get away with a fake one.”

“Just to clarify, you want me to wear this?”

“Do you not like it?” Sherlock asked. “We could try the others, but they don’t match as well.”

“More?”

“One for each suit.”

“You didn’t,” John cut himself off. “You know. Happen to just borrow them from someone?”

“They’re from the family collection.” Sherlock touched the crest and John shivered. “Rather ridiculous, don’t you think?”

“These are Holmes’ heirlooms?”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled.

“You don’t lend something like this out on a lark,” John said. Especially to blokes who were just flatmates.

“Who would notice?” Sherlock asked back. “Mycroft is never going to make use of them and Mummy prefers not to go to social events in her dotage.”

“Sherlock. These have to be.” Christ. John knew nothing about jewelry prices. “A lot.”

“One of the pieces is near two million. This sapphire one about half the value, though it is one of the oldest pieces in the family collection. I know it hasn’t been assessed in Mummy’s lifetime. She wasn’t very fond of it.”

“Are you serious?”

“We are working on a case where one million will be less than some of the Alphas make in a week. This is mild by their standards. I’ve already taken an uncalculated risk by not grabbing some of the flashier pieces. Ah.” Sherlock flared around. “One last thing.”

Sherlock slid two fingers down John’s neck until it rested above his scent gland. His pulse jumped as Sherlock kept his fingers still while he dug around in his pockets before producing a ring box. He popped it open with one hand and nudged out a diamond pin the size of a five pence. He pinned it right where his fingers were and admired it, smoothing out the nearby fabric. He fetched a second identical pin out and secured it over his own scent gland.

“Now, we look like a proper bonded couple.” Sherlock touched the pin on his own suit. “They are a bit plain, but I felt the fussier pairs got in the way of the O-Lariats.”

John couldn’t look at the mirror. He’d see the two of them standing side by side looking like something he’d never entertained having. And there was also. He slid his fingers under the sapphires, watching them glitter. If other people saw him like this. He swallowed and dropped the necklace.

John just wanted to be just John—John the doctor, John the Captain, John the friend.

“Do you not like the suit?” Sherlock asked.

“No. It's fine.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s all good. I look fit. Thanks, mate,” John managed with a perfectly steady voice.

Sherlock’s phone went off. “That’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Come along, John, we have an interrogation to attend.”

John moved to follow then stopped. He flexed his hands and licked his lips. Cautiously, he glanced over his shoulder.

The cut of the shirt was wrong, John supposed.

Omega fashion had the collar stopping at the collar bone, instead of up into the neck. And the suit—it was an A/B style. The jacket needed to be made of a thinner material and have more ornamental buttons and a lower back. Some had no back at all, besides a strip in the middle holding the two sides together. John would have laughed Sherlock out of the room if he had tried to dress John in something like that.

John's eyes flicked to the mirror again.

He did look fit.

And very much like an Omega.

Yarders walked by. Every single one of them stared. Sherlock draped his arm on the back of the seats and scrolled through his phone. John pursed his lips and leaned back. He flipped off the next Alpha that decided John’s lap was a point of interest.

“Manners,” Sherlock said.

“Piss off,” John ground out.

“Hm. Pretty sure dropping my trousers would get us arrested, and that won’t do.”

“Dick.” John flipped another bird. “Who’re you texting?”

“Research,” Sherlock responded.

“They couldn’t have had us wait in Lestrade’s office?”

“I can break us in.”

“That’ll definitely get us arrested.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“Yeah. Well.” John ran his fingers under the collar of his shirt. “You’re not the one all dressed up.”

“If you were bonded this would be everyday attire.”

“Well, I’m not now, am I?”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t care. Not really.”

“You do,” Sherlock said, finally looking up for his phone. “Enough to make you nervous. Why do they matter? What they think is insignificant.”

“Don’t do that. You take hours in the bloody loo working on your hair—”

“—Twenty minutes on average—"

“—Hours. And spend, what? Probably my yearly salary on a few suits. You take time and effort to make yourself look like that. You know why I dress. Well. Not like this.”

“Did you two have a hot date?” Sally asked. She handed them each a lanyard. “Guv’s already been in for four hours.”

Sally’s heels clicked on the floor as they walked to the interview room. John and Sherlock trailed behind her. 

“He’s spent most of the interview saying nothing.” Sally slid her ID through the door lock. “Good luck.”

Sherlock tucked his hand under John’s jacket, half under his belt. His thumb rubbed into John’s lower back. He hadn’t said anything about touching.

“Into battle, John,” Sherlock said into his ear.

The door opened.

George Evans, the Alpha who’d last seen their dead Omega alive, snapped his gaze to them as they entered. His lawyer, Tabby Williams, shuffled some papers on the table they sat at. Sherlock pulled a chair out for John and transferred his hand to under John’s collar. His fingers made small soothing circles.

Lestrade pressed a button and talked for the microphone on the table. “15:52, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson join the interview room.”

“Good afternoon, George,” Sherlock said.

“You brought an Omega here?” George asked.

“My Omega goes where I do,” Sherlock replied. 

“Mine would have thrown a bloody fit.”

Sherlock made a possessive gesture, curling his hand near around John’s neck, almost as if he meant to drag John forward, then let go. His hand moved back to resting at the edge of John’s shirt.

“Needs must. Are you comfortable?” Sherlock asked John.

“We’re supposed to be out to lunch,” John said.

“I’ll take you the moment we’re done here. Don’t worry.”

“You give him a lot of freedom,” George interrupted.

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s wearing an Alpha suit. I’d never let mine out in public in one. With the amount it takes to keep an Omega, mine better look it.”

Sherlock frowned. “It’s what mine prefers.”

Mine, not he or John. This was just for pretend.

“Do you like taking it up the arse? Is that why you let him dress like that?”

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Come now. We both know if all I wanted was to be buggered, I could have gotten a Beta to play dress-up with. A much cheaper hobby and accepted among our fellows.”

“Alright and how much did it cost you to let him play dress-up? At least a cool million,” George said giving John a shrewd examination.

“Of course, anything less would be unacceptable.”

“That’s what they say, don’t they?”

“It’s what’s expected.”

“Your Omega enjoy it then, playing Alpha?”

John wanted to lunge across the table and chin him.

“Dr. Watson,” John corrected.

“He even likes to talk like one too.” George barked a laugh. “How charming. Doesn’t matter at the end of the day, though does it? We know better. Mine doesn’t give a piss either. At least until she has her cunt in the air, gagging for it.”

John looked at him sharply.

“Don’t like the truth?” George goaded. “Bet you’re exactly the same. Only want it when you’re dripping for it.”

John knocked Sherlock’s hand off and attempted to stand. Sherlock caught his arm and George’s grin sharpened. He really was going to chin the bloody bastard.

“John,” Sherlock warned. “Stay seated.”

John might chin Sherlock too. He pushed Sherlock’s grip off.

“For such needy things they don’t like to be touched much,” George said, addressing Sherlock.

“Such as,” Sherlock confirmed as John forced himself to sit back down.

George leaned back in his chair. “It’s surprising how little other Alphas understand. They already think I’m a bastard for cheating on mine. But they don’t get it, do they? They think you have an Omega and suddenly you have everything you could ever fucking dream of. But that’s not how it goes, is it?”

“It’s a bit shite,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” George shifted. “Am I going to be stuck here the full twenty-four hours?” George asked Lestrade, addressing him for the first time since John and Sherlock entered.

“Yes. You are in custody for twenty-four hours,” Lestrade answered.

“I won’t talk with him in here,” George finally said, nodding at John. “I don’t need a frigid cunt judging me now.”

Sherlock growled, deep and sharp and it went straight to John’s cock. John found himself turning into Sherlock, seeking cover. Lestrade was out of his chair, reaching for where he normally kept his stun gun and Tabby fled to the corner of the room. George had his chair slightly pushed back, a startled expression claiming his face.

“You do not call my Omega a frigid cunt,” Sherlock said, enunciating every word. He pulled John into a half hug. “Sorry,” he breathed into John. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

Lestrade cleared his throat and ran a hand over his jacket. Tabby rushed back to the table and sat herself down.

“My client is under a lot of stress,” Tabby attempted to smooth over. 

“An apology,” Sherlock said. “To both of us.”

Tabby leaned over and whispered in George’s ear.

“Sorry. You know how it is,” George said.

“Cheers,” Sherlock said and gave John a nudge.

“Right. No worries, mate,” John ground out. “I’ll just be off.”

Sherlock rose with him. He leaned in like he was going to have a proper go at scenting John and John felt his pulse jump.

Instead, Sherlock breathed into his ear. “Good job, we got him exactly where we want him. If you want to take care of your problem the loo on the third floor is often empty.”

Sherlock quickly brushed their cheeks together as John was too mortified to move and nudged him out of the interview. John stood in the hallway. Christ. He closed his eyes and ignored his problem. That was twice today that Sherlock had set him off. It had happened before, right after they had moved in together.

No matter how John tried to ignore it, being able to smell his and Sherlock’s scents intertwined was a big ‘time to get shagged’ signal to his instincts. The longer they lived the more the urge declined. Now, John hardly registered the combination outside of it meaning home.

Sally poked her head out of the observation room. “Going to come watch the rest?”

“Right. Yeah. Just going to get a coffee. Want one?”

“Sure. Black with a sugar. You know where to go?”

“Staffroom is on the right, past the loo,” John said.

"Right.” Sally tapped on the door frame. “Just give it a knock when you want in.”

In the loo, John splashed cold water on his face. He did it several times and stopped only when the color faded from his cheeks. The shame remained.

Sherlock had noticed. Christ. He had noticed. He probably had this morning too. He needed to learn better control. He refused to jeopardize his relationship with Sherlock over his growing jumble of hormones.

He picked up the coffee after he willed his body into submission and tapped on the door as instructed. Sally let him in. George was talking almost non-stop on the other side of the glass.

“—ow often does yours let you fuck him?” George asked Sherlock.

John almost dropped the coffee on the floor.

“Yeah,” Sally said taking her coffee out of his hands. “It’s been like that. It’s the most we’ve gotten him to talk since we brought him in. Yours might be a right bastard, but he read our suspect perfectly.”

“He’s not,” John hurriedly corrected. Sally raised her eyebrows at him. “Not mine,” he clarified. “Just flatmates. I’ve said.”

Sally near rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”

“I don’t talk about my personal life,” Sherlock informed George coolly.

“That’s shite. It’s what we all say,” George said.

Sherlock shifted and John watched as Sherlock stripped himself down and covered himself with someone new. John blew the steam off the coffee.

“I was told to be thankful,” Sherlock said. He crossed his legs and relaxed back into the chair, draping his arm over the back.

“Yeah. They say that, don’t they? Mine cost a company merger.”

Sherlock flicked his fingers dangling over the chair and eyed George. “I was not privy to the transaction.”

“Yeah. That’s what having an Omega is, isn’t it? A fucking transaction. One that has an excessive amount of upkeep. I just wanted a bit more. Mine doesn’t let me near her unless it’s for a heat. That’s why I was with Bobby at the hotel. I just wanted to spend time with an Omega that was interested.”

Sally snapped her fingers at the two other Yarders in the room. “Start taking notes! On everything.”

“And Bobby was interested?” Sherlock asked.

George laughed a bit. “Don’t be modest. Alphas like us get Omegas for a reason other than our money. You put us in a room with any other Alphas and they pale in comparison. We’re the top of the pack. Look at these two.” He jerked his thumb at both Lestrade and Tabby. “They almost shite themselves when you growled and they’re both Alphas. Omegas pick that up, they really do and they want it. They want to be with the Alphas at the top. Bobby found me, not the other way around. Was looking for someone to share his early heats with before his parents started shopping him around.”

“At an A/O club?” Sherlock asked.

“Where else do you meet Omegas?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock said.

George winced in sympathy. “Kept on a tight leash?”

“It would seem so.”

“You should try out the Green Torch, it's where I met Bobby. There’s always a lot of young Omegas about. The fee is quite something, but insignificant compared to the chance, really. The attention you can get.” George grew silent.

“Are those real gems?” Sally asked.

“Sherlock said they were,” John responded.

“Feel like a posh thing in them?”

“Feel like if I trip, I’ll be indentured for the rest of my life.”

Sally snorted.

“We only had a few sessions before he passed out,” George said, continuing. “He’s young, wasn’t used to the longer runs. Can yours still go for a long time?”

“He keeps himself fit.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I saw that arse when he walked out and how trim that suit was. Mine's let herself go. Said I wasn’t going anywhere.” George pinched his face. “Fucking cunts’ right, isn’t she? Me or you can’t go anywhere. We’re stuck.”

“Too right,” Sherlock said.

“If we leave, we’d never be let near another Omega again and if they leave it’s the exact same bit. You get one Omega. God help you if anything goes wrong.”

“Enough going wrong for you to take your anger out on another Omega?” Lestrade asked, speaking for the first time since John came back.

“I didn’t kill him,” George said. “I went to take a shower to get the slick off. I suppose a copper wouldn’t know, would you? You know, Holmes. How messy it is. Fucking great when you’re in it, nothing else like it. Afterward, it’s like being covered in glue.”

“Then you came out, found him dead, called the police, and left him,” Lestrade stated. “I’d like to play something, a 999 call that was made from a cell phone, registered under your name, George.”

Lestrade flipped the laptop on the table open and selected a file. He adjusted the volume and hit play. 

“’Emergency. Which service?’ ’Um,’ George spoke, his voice high and wobbling. A pause. ‘Um. Dead.’ ‘Is someone dead, now?’ ‘Christ. Yeah. Uh. Christ. He’s dead.’ ‘Can you give me your address.’ ‘I don’t know the address. It’s a hotel. I’m at a hotel.’ ‘That’s fine. Completely fine. Can you give me the hotel name?’ ‘Seaglass.’ ‘Okay. Thank you. Are you hurt at all?’ ‘No. I’m. He’s dead.’ ‘That’s alright. Can you stay on the phone with me? I’m sending an ambulance.’ ‘Someone’s coming?’ ‘Yes. An ambulance is on its way. Can you stay on the phone with me?’ ‘No. No. I need to go.’ ‘Please stay on the phone—’”

The recording ended and Lestrade reset the program.

“Was that you who made the phone call to emergency services?” Lestrade asked.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Tabby said.

George dismissed her. “You’re judging me. What would you have done, then? I called. Did the right thing.”

“Stay with the dead body for one,” Lestrade said. “You’re making yourself look bad.”

“I didn’t want to leave,” George said. “I just couldn’t get caught up in it all. If my Omega found out. My Omega can’t leave me. It’d ruin me. Straight out.”

“And this isn’t caught up?” Lestrade asked.

“No. This is business. We’ll get this sorted in a few. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“He’s a smug arse,” Sally said.

John hummed in agreement.

“You want me to believe,” Lestrade said, “that you and Bobby shared the beginning of his heat. He got exhausted and you went to go take a shower. Then, by the time you came out, he was dead.”

“Yes. Because that’s what happened. I read through the file. You don’t have anything on me, other than that I fucked him. I’m sorry he’s dead. But it’s not my problem. Can I get a drink?”

“Yes,” Tabby said. “We’re requesting a ten-minute break.”

“Alright,” Lestrade said. He pressed the button on the microphone. “Interview suspended at 16:28. To be resumed.”

“He’s not our killer,” Sherlock said as he and Lestrade entered the observational room. “You clearly share the same inclination.”

Lestrade let out a defeated sigh. “Yeah.” Lestrade made an aborted, frustrated movement. “Bloody hell. He was our only lead.”

“Yes. It’s getting better and better! And here I was worried it might be boring.”

John coughed to cover a laugh.

“You need some better hobbies,” Sally said.

“My hobby is the reason we’ll solve this case. If that’s everything, we’ll be leaving.”

“Right. Let me know if you get anything, Sherlock. This case is a nightmare.”

“I look forward to it.”

John swallowed his pride when they got home. He bowed out as Sherlock stopped for a chat with Mrs. Hudson and gathered all the pamphlets he had tossed in the bin after his panic attack the day before. Sitting on his bed, he went through every single one.

John couldn’t be losing control over such simple things, especially when they had a case on. There wasn’t anything worse than imagining Sherlock telling him he didn’t suit the work anymore. And if it took finding an Alpha to shove a cock up his arse to help him mellow out, he could manage it.

The truth was, even if he managed a suppressed heat alone, Dr. Jones had been right. At his age seeing himself through a full heat would likely kill him. Sherlock, the only Alpha John could imagine asking, clearly had no interest in helping. John didn’t even know if Sherlock had any desire for sex as a concept, much less the actual reality of it.

He needed to make the appointment. He could pick an Alpha out, and be in the safest environment possible. And if anything went wrong—well—right—at least he wouldn’t be murdered. Anything else he’d manage as he had. Christ. After eight aborted attempts he finally managed to dial and make an appointment—it was the right thing to do.

For Queen and country and Sherlock Holmes.

Apparently.

_Preferred Length of Cock:_

John stared down at the question on the tablet and choked on his tea. He thumped his chest until he was able to collect himself.

“Everything alright, Dr. Watson?” Sam asked from the reception desk.

John gave him a dismissive wave.

“Everything’s fine, ta,” John answered.

He read the question again and his eyebrows attempted to climb off his face. This form was ridiculous. He typed in ‘not specified’ and continued. The previous questions had been rather benign, something he’d find at his own clinic.

_Preferred Width of Cock:_

He scrolled down to the next.

_Preferred Positions:_

_Preferred Kinks:_

_Refractory Period:_

John put the tablet down. What had he honestly expected from a stud house? Thank Christ, he hadn’t opted to fill this out in the flat. Nothing on his laptop was private. John had learned that the hard way after Sherlock had found his entire porn collection a week after he’d moved in. Sherlock had peppered him with questions afterward and it had devolved into a shouting match between two grown men until Mrs. Hudson interrupted. He picked the tablet up again and typed in answers.

Embarrassment tinted his skin by the time he finished the form and handed the tablet off to Sam. He sat back down in the waiting room and leaned on one of the armrests, crossing his fingers.

“Sorry, Dr. Watson.” Sam approached him with the tablet. “You forgot to select an age range.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” John had no age preference. He quickly checked them all. “Sorry, is it possible to make a request for something that isn’t on the intake form?”

“Absolutely. Extra requests are fairly common.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Sir?”

“Right. Just. If possible. I don’t want anyone too fit. None of that bodybuilding rubbish.”

“Any other requests?”

“No. Thanks. That’s it, really.”

Sam smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you all sorted. A room will be prepared for you soon.”

“Right. Thanks.”

John fiddled with his phone. He’d taken a day off from the clinic for this. He had no texts. There was one other person in the waiting room. A young woman Omega with dark black hair accompanied by an older Omega who could possibly be her mother.

“We’re ready for you Dr. Watson,” Sam said. “If you’d follow me.”

“Alright,” John said.

John hefted himself out of the chair and Sam led them to a nicer area of the building that looked a bit like a hotel lobby. They stopped outside a door with a gold number two. A basket with a bright pink bow rested in front of it. Sam picked up the basket with a smile and offered it to John. 

“What’s this?” John asked, peering down into it. The contents were covered by tinted plastic.

“To assist all your needs while you go through the samples,” Sam informed him cheerily.

“All my needs?” John asked dubiously. He took the basket with trepidation. 

“There are no cameras, and the suite will be thoroughly cleaned on your departure.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Any more questions?”

“No. I’ll just head in, shall I?”

“There is a buzzer in the basket you can press if you need anything from the front desk.”

“Alright.”

Sam opened the door and John slid into the room.

“Good luck, Dr. Watson,” Sam said.

The door closed.

John ripped off the plastic from the basket and barked out an incredulous laugh. It was a sex basket. A bloody sex basket. There were two shrink-wrapped dildos. Several bottles of lube; one with blueberry dashed across its side and an assortment of toys that John really didn’t want to spend his time sorting through.

“Fucking hell,” John muttered. He closed his eyes and rocked on his feet.

They expected him to take a few sniffs and have a nice wank. By his leave. Just a casual afternoon at a stud house. He sighed. He’d rather be anywhere else, really. Opening his eyes, he glanced at the room and was surprised. He’d expected pink.

The walls were striped in a tasteful tan and white. A wooden table occupied the middle of the room, half-filled with clear labeled containers and flanked by two plush white couches that were draped with gray blankets.

Hesitantly, John sat at the edge of one of the couches and placed the basket by his feet. The samples were labeled by number. One through fourteen. He was glad they weren’t named. He ran his hands over his knees.

Right.

John picked one up and examined it. The containers were basic lidded petri dishes, like the ones Sherlock expected John to do with the washing up; even if they carried toxic waste. John was still working with him on that. There was no reason they couldn’t be binned or the genius could give them a washing up himself.

He gave the dish a bit of a shake. It was all a bit absurd. He was holding a petri dish with some lads’ cum in it and it was wiggling.

He giggled.

Then laughed.

John was a forty-year-old man.

When he was able to get control of himself, he popped the lid off. Bringing it up to his nose, he sniffed. Nothing happened. He frowned and sniffed again.

The sample scented as Alpha. It had the same basic earthy notes all Alphas carried and John felt his cock give a slight twitch but the following near citrus notes chased that away. Bit like chatting up a bird only to find she was married and just out for a bit of fun. Not something he’d spend any time on, really. He put the sample down and reached for another. The same deal.

John opened the fourth one. He breathed in and his entire world narrowed. A choked sound escaped and he shoved his nose straight in. 

It was like taking a shower after a long patrol. The hot water beating down on his skin, banishing the sticky sweat and grime that squeezed itself through layers of protective gear; suffocating him with steam as he was purged.

This is what he’d been expecting.

His tongue darted out and licked.

“Ah,” John failed to tamper the gasp.

His prick pressed firmly up against his jeans. He palmed himself and then jerked away when he realized. Hastily, he shoved the lid on and reached for another, hoping it would dim the throbbing.

The next was worse.

He pressed his forehead into the table and took himself in hand. His cock was hot and heavy and red. Pre-cum dribbled down from his slit. He ran his thumb over the liquid, dragging it around the head and past the crown. His breathing became heavy.

It was just relief. This wasn’t for anything else.

He dragged his hand up and down, wincing at how dry it still was. But that was good. It’d keep him in his right mind. Not like an Alpha would touch his prick anyways. The few times he’d asked he’d been either ignored or laughed at and called ‘silly.’

“Fucking silly little Omega,” the Alpha had cooed right into John’s ear.

He had forgotten the Alpha’s name.

“Want me to touch your useless Omega prick? S’not anywhere as good as mine, is it?” The Alpha punctuated his words with thrusts, carving John apart beneath him.

John remembered bits. Helplessly rutting against the bed. Trying to get any fiction. Craving any sort of touch. He had fumbled around with a Beta girl in his class a few weeks earlier. Her dainty hands and blue pained nails had teased him, running over the veins, just lightly touching. He’d never felt anything so fantastic.

The Alpha only fucked him. Shoved his prick right up John’s arse and knocked him down on the bed, breathing wetly into his neck. Alphas were rubbish bed partners.

“You don’t need me to touch it. You’re going to come from me fucking you on my cock. Be a good Omega for me, yeah?”

John had.

Alpha pheromones were undeniable. There was no replacement for them. Or the large hot prick that stretched him to the point of breaking, to where all he could do was lay there and let his muscles contract and contract as he blacked out, pleasure rippling over his entire body.

He tugged harder on his own cock. It had slicked itself up prettily with pre-cum, had a nice shine under the lights of the room. It wasn’t silly. Wanting to be touched like this. He rolled his forehead against the table and came.

He held himself till he went soft, listing to his own breathing echoing against the table. He tucked himself back in and separated the last two samples from the rest before realizing he still had cum coating his fingers.

Christ.

He hated all of this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are ones I've failed to catch in editing. This chapter kicked my butt a bit. Hopefully, it reads well.

The umbrella broke, half of the ribs crumpling in some cosmic joke. The London drizzle seeped through John’s jacket as people shoved past him, their shoulders bumping against his in the dinner rush. He stood still, listening to the cars running over water and the electric hum of streetlights popping on.

He had bought the umbrella on offer at Tesco when he realized the Tube would no longer be an option. The deodorizer system utilized in the carriages were geared towards Alpha's nasal capacities and not Omegas. He had learned that the hard way after being completely overwhelmed and found himself cowering in the men’s room.

“Mr. Holmes?”

The damp settled into his bones and his hair plastered against his forehead, letting water drip down his face. Walking back to the flat was going to be awful. Water was already staining up his jeans and the fire would need to be set to dry out his shoes.

“Mr. Holmes!”

John blinked through the gray of the evening, unable to pick out whatever clever dick thought it would be a lark to call John ‘Mr. Holmes.’

“Mr. Holmes!”

A hand caught John’s elbow and John reached to break it. The cuff links from the woman’s suit gleamed and John had a sinking feeling if he examined them, they’d match the crest he’d worn the other day. John turned around. The woman wore a plain black suit and held an umbrella above her head.

“You got the wrong man, mate.”

“Don’t believe so, Mr. Holmes,” the woman answered.

“And you are?”

“Jupiter.”

“Right.” John rocked on his feet and felt his socks squish. The rubbish name only meant one thing. “Is Mycroft here, then?” John asked wearily.

“I’m to take you to the car, sir.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

John wasn’t sure which was worse. Walking home in the rain or sitting in a car with Mycroft. Jupiter waited patiently for him. The poor bugger.

“Right. Where’s the bloody car?”

“Right this way, sir. Would you like to use the umbrella, sir?”

“No,” John said.

The car was idling a street down, tucked off the main road with Mycroft waiting inside. Blessedly, the interior of the vehicle smelled like cleaning chemicals and only a whisp of an Alpha’s scent. Sherlock threw a fit every time John came home smelling like Mycroft. The heating blasted on and the car moved. John shivered.

“Evening, Mycroft,” John ventured after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes, it’s a good evening, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes?” Mycroft said with a tight smile.

“It’s Watson-Holmes,” John said.

“Pardon?”

“Watson-Holmes, we agreed that it sounded better.”

“How forward-thinking of the two of you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. We best keep that from Mummy.”

“Was it in the gossip rags?”

Mycroft glanced down at his umbrella handle then back up at John. “Hm, no. Despite what Sherlock may think, I do notice when several million pounds worth of family jewels decide to go on a bit of a walk. I thought it was best to keep tabs.”

“So, you’ve been spying on us again. Got it. Have either of you tried having a normal sibling relationship?”

“What does a normal sibling relationship entail? Should we adopt the Watson tradition of only speaking on holidays or when visiting the hospital?”

Of course, Mycroft knew how often John talked to Harry. Why wouldn’t he?

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Merely to have dinner with my brother-in-law.”

John snorted. “Sure. You can pay. And I want a nice steak.”

“My treat. You will need a change of clothes, less you want to spend the evening in wet trousers.” 

Athena awaited them outside a posh restaurant, several bags in hand.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” Athena greeted.

“Yes. Very funny. Can we drop it?” John asked.

Athena held the bags out for John. “Loo’s on the left. Do you need help?”

“Full of laughs you are,” John responded.

John snatched the bags and sighed when he realized they contained a full three-piece suit in a green eerily similar to the green in the plaid Sherlock had picked out. This suit had obviously been picked out to taunt Sherlock. John sighed again. Another headache. He had never quite understood the power games Sherlock and Mycroft played with each other. He used the trousers and the jacket and ignored the waistcoat and shirt.

“I suppose it’ll do,” Mycroft said when John joined him.

Mycroft pulled out an elaborate bonding pin with a yellow diamond at the center. He clipped it on the suit and held his arm out. John crossed his own.

“Don’t think so,” John said.

“As you please,” Mycroft said. “We have a booth in the back. I’ve already put in orders for us.”

“I can order my own food.”

“Yes. But there was little point in waiting when I knew what you wanted. Steak, wasn’t it?”

“The more time I spend with you I realize both you and Sherlock have the same bloody annoying habits.”

The interior of the restaurant was forged from dark wood and low hanging lamps that left barely enough room to see anything properly. Half-moon booths covered in a rich red velvet were the only seating options available. They were spaced far apart and turned so that unless John really looked at them, he couldn’t make out the occupants. Mycroft led them to the very back of the venue and sat down after John.

“I’m surprised you’d take me somewhere public. I was getting used to the warehouse meeting spots,” John said.

“Oh. I would never take you somewhere public,” Mycroft said blandly.

“And this isn’t?”

“Do give me some credit,” Mycroft said with a thin smile. “The Alpha sitting behind us is currently enjoying a quick handie, as they say, from his business partner’s son. The Beta two rows over is here with one of her affair partners.”

A waiter silently placed the food on the table. A steak for John and a salad in front of Mycroft.

“Still on that diet?” John asked. He cut off a big bite of steak and ate it.

“The implication that I might be sharing an Omega with my dear brother is perhaps the least scandalous thing in the room,” Mycroft continued as if John had said nothing.

John started choking on his steak.

“Oh, please. No reason for such dramatics,” Mycroft said distastefully. He nudged John’s glass of water, eying John like he was a pet who puked in his shoe and wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. “I assure you the practice is still widely accepted due to our dismal Omega birth rate.”

John gulped down the water on the table and a horrified expression claimed his face.

“I’m not interested,” John said a bit too loud. “Very, very, very, absolutely not interested. Yeah. It’s a no. All around. Every part of that.”

“Not to worry. You are not to my—inclinations.”

“You have them?” John asked, then winced. He had really just asked that.

“Yes, but I often get quite bored. Most humans get unequivocally dull after a few minutes.”

“Right, does, er.” John cleared his throat. “Does he, you know?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Dr. Watson.”

John narrowed his eyes. Now it was Dr. Watson. Mycroft knew bloody well what John was asking. He drank the rest of the water.

“You had implied, um, that Sherlock didn’t have them—inclinations. It’s just, he’s never said.”

“It is remiss, that in this area my information is perhaps the most lacking.”

“You’re saying you don’t know.”

“He had a dalliance with an Omega in university that was short-lived. Most of his other exploits were during his cocaine binges. It was hard to discern if his habits were preferences or simply a means to an end.”

“So, nothing then? No Alphas or Betas or.” John shrugged.

“No. None.”

“Well. That’s fine then.”

“I have to express my concerns,” Mycroft said. “Your loss, I fear, would break my brother’s heart.”

John cleared his throat. “Sorry?”

“The easiest solution would be to secure yourself a bondmate.”

“My medical history is supposed to be private,” John ground out.

“Oh, nothing is truly private.”

“If you were Sherlock, I’d chin you.”

“That wouldn’t go well for either of us I’m afraid. So, let us refrain from physical violence. I’ve prepared a few qualified bondmates, who would be available for heat service and then disappear to let you continue on accompanying my brother on his little adventures.”

Mycroft placed a folder on the table.

“The answer is no,” John said.

He ignored the file. Mycroft pushed it closer.

“Just take a peek. Please.”

“Yeah. That’s creepy.”

When John failed to open the folder, Mycroft did it himself and dragged out the top sheet of paper with one finger, an irritated expression on his face.

“Alfred Williams, Alfie for short. He’s served overseas for six years.”

John glanced at the profile that had been prepared. The number of medals the Alpha had earned was impressive. So was his kill count and with that John understood what this was all about.

“I suppose the rest are equally qualified Alphas?”

“Just so.”

“You’re trying to recruit him.”

“He would be a valuable asset,” Mycroft confirmed. 

“Let me understand. You get me to bond so Sherlock stays safe while offering some Alpha a bribe for continuing to work with the British government.”

“You’re aware of the unique opportunity your second gender presents you. And I was under the impression you were not averse to using your more singular attributes.”

“And how do you know about that?” John growled, enraged. “The medical records are obvious but that was when I was—that was years ago Mycroft.”

“The British government has always held its Omegas in the highest of regards. When a sudden large influx of Omega slick comes on the market from less savory sources there is always a concern of an Omega ring.”

At fifteen, two years after John had presented, it was clear as day that staying with Hamish was a non-option. John had looked around and realized his choices were limited. Omega approved housing was expensive, and that meant money. Lots of it.

He had sold his slick four times. He had figured he might as well. Being an Omega was good for little else. The first time had been to pay for suppressants with Harry pacing up and down the hallway grumbling and growling, standing watch. The rest had been in a bolt hole with his dealer standing by with collection jars. He had told himself never again. He’d rather shoot himself.

Those three sessions had covered housing and schooling until he went into the army.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” John said. “If you’re looking to hold that over my head. You can stuff it. You could say I offered my services to the common British citizen, just as I do as a GP and as your brother’s assistant.”

“Assistant is a bit of an upgrade from blogger, isn’t it?”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft dabbed his napkin against the corner of his mouth. “You could once again be of service by securing a select Alpha for Queen and country.”

“I’m not going to bond.”

Mycroft sighed. “Have you thought it through?”

John pressed his lips together and smiled. “Yeah. Pretty sure. I’ve had over half my life to think it through, alright?”

“I’m going to ask you to reconsider.”

“No.”

“Maybe an example is in order if you’re not willing to listen.”

“No, I listened. I just think it's a load of shite.”

“Nevertheless.”

Mycroft reached under his coat and pulled out a small spritzer. John had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what was in it.

“Mycroft—”

Mycroft twisted the top off and spritzed him.

The scent of terrified Alpha devastated John.

Warring instincts paralyzed him. Part of him wanted to utterly cower and hide and beg and just bare his neck—it was the arresting moments before a bomb went off, just waiting in silence for luck to decide the outcome. Mycroft smiled at him. Fucking bastard.

“I’ve always found it to be an evolutionary miracle that Omegas managed to survive through the years and that it took man-made chemicals to actually do harm to the global population. If you could see yourself, Dr. Watson. Here you are, a man of some intelligence who is quite capable of physical alterations and a crack shot rendered useless by pheromones,” Mycroft said. 

John was going to strangle him. He’d feel Mycroft’s airway give way under pressure as he squeezed down with his weight—he’d hear the stuttering breath and watch the eyes flicker in desperation. John’s hand started shaking and the fork dropped out of his grip.

“You are, regrettably, a liability. If you endanger my brother—well—if you ever do turn the Watson into a Holmes, that protection will also be afforded to you. Until then, please remember what I’ve asked of you.”

Mycroft fetched a second spray bottle and used it several times before tucking both away. The new Alpha scent was relaxed, happy, and very pungent. John would have coughed if he was able to. It still worked very slowly. It was hard for his body to adjust away from the complete terror the previous scent had wrought.

“He said he was married to his work,” John forced his lips to work. He’d take a long go at Mycroft if he thought he could sustain it. John doubted he’d get past calling Mycroft a fucking, sodding cunt.

Mycroft gave him a thin smile. “So are most of the people in this room, but they still have time for their proclivities.”

A door slammed open. John couldn’t manage to turn around and look.

Mycroft pulled back his sleeve and looked down at his watch. “He’s getting slow.”

“This place is hateful,” Sherlock declared, marching right up to the booth.

Sherlock was a breath of fresh air. John wanted to bury himself in it. Sherlock glowered down at the two of them, eyes bouncing back and forth before they narrowed and he lightly sniffed. His lips curled in a snarl.

“What did you do?” Sherlock demanded of Mycroft.

Sherlock reached for John and tried to pull him up. John’s legs failed to cooperate and it was like a child holding a doll. A dark expression crossed Sherlock’s face.

“Good evening, brother,” Mycroft said. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock snarled, his voice tinted with Alpha.

“I have the records you wanted,” Mycroft said. He ate a bite of his salad.

“Piss off,” Sherlock repeated. “Can you walk?” He asked John.

“Would rather not,” John said with difficulty.

Sherlock struggled with figuring out how to heft John out of the booth. He grappled with John’s limbs. John found it quite comical. He would have giggled. Sherlock tried to arrange them in a manner where he could slide John on his back. Quite clever, really. A fireman’s carry might've been better.

“You won’t get the reports otherwise. DI Lestrade has already been denied access,” Mycroft said.

“We’re leaving. I’ll do a favor. Several.”

“I want to enjoy a dinner with the happy newly-weds. Such a cheery occasion.”

Sherlock grunted as he failed to slide John on his back and the blunt force of John’s dead weight fell on his side.

“Sit down. You lack the core strength to carry Dr. Watson for any length of time.”

Sherlock puffed up. He breathed harshly. “Fine,” he ground off.

Sherlock shuffled John upright and climbed ungracefully over him to sit down closest to Mycroft. He quickly dumped the Belstaff over John’s shoulders and held his hand across the table.

“The other pin,” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft slid a velvet box across the table. Sherlock flicked it open and grabbed the bonding pin out. It was a much simpler design, the Alpha version to the Omega one John wore. He pinned it on and nearly threw the box back at Mycroft.

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and pressed. John’s shoulders loosened. Sherlock quirked a fast smile. John would have smiled back if he thought it was amusing. It wasn’t. Only gaining control of his body because of different Alpha pheromones proved Mycroft right.

“Did you look at the files,” Sherlock asked. “Or was that too much legwork?”

“It seems your concerns were valid.”

“Of course, they were. I’m never wrong.”

“Sometimes,” John rasped.

“Rarely,” Sherlock amended. “How many?”

“As far as I could tell. Bobby was the third," Mycroft said.

“More?” John asked.

“Bobby was killed too precisely for a first-time murderer,” Sherlock said, leaning forward. “Most killers butcher the first body they try to kill. They never account for the actual physical body and what happens when someone dies. Fluids and all those bits get messy. Bobby’s death had to be planned out and executed without a hitch in the time span of a shower with minimal noise—thus likely not the first. Or our murderer got a lot of practice somewhere else.”

“Brilliant,” John murmured, the words finally coming easy. He flexed his fingers and moved his toes stiffly.

“I was only able to obtain the files on the promise you would be delicate in your handling of this, Sherlock. There is no reason to create any more upset,” Mycroft said. He removed a memory stick from his jacket pocket. “This is for you only. Do you understand?”

“Don’t be dull, Mycroft.”

“Promise or I won’t hand it over.”

“I promise. Happy?”

“Exceedingly.”

Mycroft passed the memory stick over. “Do be careful, brother mine.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he pocketed the drive. He picked up one of the compiled profiles. He scanned the top one and sharply looked up at Mycroft.

“These are?”

“Something me and Dr. Watson discussed.”

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s water and dumped it right over the paper.

“Childish,” Mycroft scolded.

“Good. Can you walk?” Sherlock asked John. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re leaving. Mycroft is a horrid fat arse.”

“Might need a bit of help,” John replied honestly.

Sherlock slung John’s arm over his shoulders and helped him out of the booth. Blessedly, Sherlock matched his gait to John’s. John giggled as he struggled to place one foot in front of the other. They looked ridiculous with the height difference. The rain was still coming down outside and Sherlock pulled them to a halt under the awning, eyes searching for a taxi.

“I’ll never let him,” Sherlock declared after a few moments of silence.

“Sorry?” John asked.

“You’ll never end up in a skip, or the Thames, or anywhere else his fat arse wants to put you. You are the conductor of my light, John. You belong right here. I’ll assure it.”

John gave a week laugh. “Sure, mate.”

“I mean it, John. Right here, I’ll not tolerate anything else. Alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Alright,” John said, dipping his head.

Sherlock held John’s wrist all the way home, searing small little circles into his skin.

The second most common cause of death for Omegas in the UK was Omega on Omega violence. Most, if not all, stemmed from territorial heat rages. There were tragic epics written about emperors who went on journeys to only return to all but one of their concubines dead, painting themselves with the blood of the slain. There had been a rather good movie on it last year. John didn’t remember the name; he might have had a few pints before he had agreed to go with his date. On second thought, it might have been rubbish.

The last Omega scandal in the news had been an affair partner who had shown up while the bondmate had been in heat. The Omega had killed both their Alpha and the affair partner. The headline had memorably read ‘Entrails from the Nest,' with some gory pictures that John had found quite fascinating. It was amazing how people could be killed.

John held himself very still. Liz, the only family member of suspected victim Katie Borren to agree to an interview, was in pre-heat. Liz sniffed the two fingers he’d offered up for inspection. It might have been better to send in Sherlock or Lestrade. Alphas had a higher survival rate with pre-heat Omegas. Theo, the Alpha to Liz’s Omega, had refused to let them into the room.

Liz smiled tightly at him and pulled away. She fixed her filter mask and waved a hand at it. “Just a precaution.”

“Sorry,” John offered. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“If I had known we were expecting you I would have received you with my bondmate.”

“I thought it best—” Theo started from his watchful perch behind her.

“Well. I don’t. And surely, I know what’s best for me, don’t I?” Liz crossed her arms and regarded John.

“Liz—” Theo tried again.

“What? They found an Omega because I’m too delicate to have strange Alphas talking to me in our drawing-room the day before my heat. Do you have any other time-wasting requests you wish to submit?”

Theo cleared his throat. “No ma’am.”

John coughed to hide a laugh. He sat down on the other armchair. A servant hurried over with a portable diffuser and set it at John’s feet, turning it on max setting and allowing puffs of steam to curl over his legs.

“Well, I’m here. Start asking me questions,” Liz demanded.

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” John opened the notebook on his lap. Lestrade had prepared a list of questions that Sherlock had added notes to. More complaints than notes, really. “Recently, we found a dead Omega at an Omega hotel. We believe his death is related to your sister's from a month ago. We wanted to ask a few questions regarding the circumstances of your sister’s death.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait a few days,” Theo inserted. “I could have them come back.”

“No. I want to help. Keep going,” Liz instructed.

“When we examined the body—” John forged on.

“—You examined the body,” Liz cut in.

“Uh. Yeah,” John said.

“Why?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Really?”

“I was an Army medic.”

“How many years of schooling is that?”

“Five in university, two in rotation, and then more depending on if you specialize.”

Liz lost focus. Her face scrunched and she counted out several breaths. She knocked Theo's hand away when he tried to comfort her.

“Sorry," Liz said collecting herself back with effort. Her face was more flushed. "Did you?”

“Specialize? Yeah. Surgery.”

“Can I go to university?”

Theo appeared caught out to be suddenly included in the conversation again. “I’d never thought about it,” he said hesitantly.

“Of course, you haven’t. Why would you.”

“I can see—”

“But you’re not going to.”

“I—”

“You think this is some flight of fancy because my hormones are acting up.”

Theo sputtered.

“Next question, John,” Liz said. "I'm running out of time."

“Your family declined to comment at the time if your sister was seeing any Alphas besides the potential matches.”

“She wasn’t dating anyone,” Liz said firmly. “Omega’s don’t date or have romantic commitments unless a family is very well off.”

“Yours isn’t?”

“I have another sister who just presented as an Omega. Three out of four children.”

It was like talking to Sherlock.

“Uh. Congratulations?” John offered.

“Do you consider it? Would you be happy with an Omega child?”

“I don’t plan on having any,” John said.

“Aren’t you lucky to have that choice. How many children are in our contract, Theo?”

Theo cleared his throat, a hot blush climbing up his neck. “One, with allowance for the number to go up at your discretion.”

“My mother only now considers my father a worthwhile investment. I believe his marriage price drained the entire family reserve. She is very lucky she inherited several family properties otherwise my Father would have never looked her way. My sister was allowed to go to approved A/O clubs to find sexual partners for one-night stands. She was never allowed to repeat one.”

“Do you know who her partner was that night?”

Liz laughed. “You think she would be let near someone who hadn’t been approved?”

“Could you give us a name?”

“Of course. Asther Stone. Though, if you’re going to approach him, be careful of his Omega. He’s a frightful cunt.”

“Asther is bonded?”

“Quite. About half of the Alphas selected at A/O clubs are, mostly to Betas and a handful to Omegas.”

“Sorry. Just, you said Aster was bonded to an Omega?” John made a note. George had been bonded to an Omega too.

“Yes. If the Alphas are bonded, they’re guaranteed to not force one. What’s a little infidelity after all, over dealing with the embarrassment of a lesser Alpha having a chance at an Omega. At least the Alphas on their way out think so.” She paused and sent a sharp look at Theo. “If I ever catch you. I will take you outside and shoot you like a dog.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Theo murmured.

“Not to say all Alphas are complete knotheads. It’s usually the same bonded Alphas that cycle out of the clubs and quite a few of the new rich, who don’t understand the rules. It’s quite refreshing. It's how I found Theo. I could recommend you a few if you’re looking.”

“Right. No. Thanks,” John said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Pity.”

“I have notes saying your family refused any investigation?” John tried to get the conversation back on track.

“It would have been suicidal for my parent’s business prospects. The failure to protect an Omega is akin to letting someone shoot the Queen. It's not something you fail at.”

“So. Right. You don’t think Asther was responsible?”

Liz laughed. “He wants to get his knot wet. Killing an Omega is very counterproductive to that.”

John made another note. “Do you know what clubs your sister frequented?”

“Only the Double O and Green Torch.”

The same as George. John tapped the pen against the notebook.

“Who died?” Liz asked before John could continue.

“I’m afraid I can’t say as it is an ongoing investigation and all.”

“Of course. That’ll be all for today.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m done.”

“I have more questions.”

“They’ll have to wait. Theo,” Liz said.

Theo rushed around the lounge to Liz’s side. He offered her his arm and she grasped it. After a few deep breaths she hoisted herself off with a slight grimace. The scent of heat drifted over. John froze, his hands tightening around the notebook. He didn’t dare move until Liz and Theo were several rooms away.

The hush of early morning swallowed John’s gasps as he slowly rolled his hips into the bed, trying to stretch out the thrum of pleasure that coiled up his spine. The old mattress caved under his flushed cock as he thrust, giving away just enough that he could pretend he was carefully nudging himself into something hotter and tighter and wetter. That was his favorite way to get off, to sink in little by little until his prick was coated and surrounded by heat.

A trail of slick ran down his thighs as he caught a burst of Sherlock’s scent. Sandalwood, oakmoss and the spark of fire that was utterly Alpha. It was one of the unspoken bonuses of living with an Alpha, John never needed to pay for bottled scents to help get off. He hummed, enjoying the way Sherlock’s scent simmered along his skin like the midday afghan sun, boiling against his touch as he pressed himself down and the tip of his prick caught against his pre-cum damp pants.

Another wave of slick dripped out, coating his tensed-up thighs. John trembled and suddenly everything was too much; the sheets were suffocating and rough and slowly rubbing himself off seemed like the worst idea he had ever had. He threw off the bedding and desperately struggled out of his pants.

He stumbled up to his knees and whined at the loss of pressure as his cock throbbed against his stomach, dribbling pre-cum. Quickly, he smeared his hand through his slick and moaned as took himself firmly in hand, enjoying the drag of his palm as he started working himself.

John’s arousal was near painful as he watched with rapt attention as the head of his cock disappeared and reappeared under his grip. His slick squeezed out between his fingers, dripping down to the sheets.

“Fuck,” John groaned.

There was always something completely hot and filthy watching his prick go in and out of a hole, pulling slick out with each drag and thrust. He breathed out needy a swear as one hard shove made a wet sound. Yeah. That always got him. He dragged his fist faster, relishing in the near slapping sound. He was already so close.

Hazily, he reached back towards his arse. He creased down until the tip of his thumb felt around the engorged dripping muscle. His arse swallowed the single-digit eagerly and his knees almost gave out as he instantly clenched around it, seeking more. With no shame, John slid his knees as far apart as he could manage and slipped in a few more fingers.

He moved up and down carefully at first, letting his inner muscles fully adjust to the stretch. When the stretch became a pleasant burn, he rushed to establish a stable rhythm of fucking himself while jerking on his cock. He’d spent many teenage years perfecting it and he hadn’t indulged in a proper wanking session in months. He deserved it. His head fell back and a steady stream of ums broke from his lips and his legs started to shake.

John's vision whited. He tipped over into the bed, his arse clenching around his fingers and his cum dribbling out into the sheets as he gasped his orgasm out into his pillows.

John wiped his hands on the sheets and stared at the slick he had just wiped off.

There wasn’t supposed to be any.

John tried to take a calming breath and failed. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and desperately tried to catalog his symptoms.

Realized cognitive dissonance, increased heart rate and body temperature, production of slick and John inhaled; Omega pheromones. Heat scent, richer and more suffocating, clung to the very air of the room. The whole flat probably reeked of it. John ticked out four fingers and licked his lips. Increased sexual arousal, obvious as Sherlock would say, another finger out.

John stopped himself. He needed nothing more to confirm it. Being around Liz in her pre-heat must have set him off. Another rubbish Omega perk. One breeding Omega meant it must be safe to get fucked. Obviously.

It wasn’t a full heat. Thank God. At least some part of his suppressants were still working.

John took another shuddering breath.

He fumbled with the side table until he managed to get the drawer open. He kept four emergency shots of Beta hormones in his room and another eight in the main part of the flat; two were next to his bed, another in with his socks and the last one tucked with his gun. He refused to throw them out even at Dr. Jones insistence. He bit the cap off the first syringe he grabbed and jammed it right into his thigh.

Hormones needed an hour to start counteracting his heat. It would only numb a handful of the more extreme symptoms, like leaking slick all over the floor. His hypersensitive sense of smell and his rawer Omega instincts would remain on display. He tossed the empty dose to the floor and scrubbed his hands over his face.

His thoughts scattered as he realized he was fully hard again. He shifted with a grimace. If he bought himself an hour for the hormones to kick in everything would be fine. He forced himself to lay back down and go to sleep.

Hamish had a guest over.

John pulled his pillow over his head and turned his back to the door. They’d be up at least for a few more hours drinking. John had taken to keeping his shoes in his room. There was normally a smashed bottle or two on the floor the morning after. 

The door to John’s room swung open. John jerked up. Hamish fumbled finding the light switch and only managed when he bumped into it.

“Johnny. Get up. Come greet our guest,” Hamish ordered. He snapped his fingers.

John didn’t move. He stared. Hamish grabbed him and forced John towards the Alpha standing in the doorway.

“Johnny, this is Thomas.”

“Hello, Jonny,” Thomas said.

“John,” John corrected.

“Johnny—”

“—I’d prefer Tom as well.” Tom held his wrist out for John to sniff, a proper Alpha greeting; at least according to all the rubbish literature the doctors had dumped on him. “Nice to meet you, John.”

John stared at the wrist and tried to back up. Hamish kept him in place before firmly digging his fingers in. “Be polite, Johnny, this man’s come from London just to see you.”

John wanted to say piss off. He swallowed.

“Go on then.” Hamish jerked John.

Grudgingly, John picked up the man’s hand and raised it to his nose. He barely ghosted over it and the small area flooded with aroused Alpha pheromones. John gritted his teeth. Disgusting. He dropped the hand and rubbed his sleeve over his face.

“Be a good lad and offer yours now,” Hamish instructed.

“It's supposed to be two fingers,” John grumbled.

“Wrist! Don’t be shy.”

John held his own out. Tom grasped it and pressed it under his nose without hesitation. He took several greedy inhales and let out a small moan before sneaking his tongue out and licking at John’s skin like it was water. John stood frozen and Hamish let out a laugh.

“That’s all good, then isn’t it, Johnny,” Hamish said.

Tom tightened his hold and reeled John in. Hamish let go and John attempted to move back. Tom just pulled John closer. Panic bubbled up. John may have been able to fight against Hamish but an Alpha ten years younger and not pissed off his arse was going to be very difficult.

“Shh,” Tom said when John tested his hold. Tom ran his hand down John’s back. “There’s a good Omega. I know you’re still too young for a real heat. I wanted to get to know you before then.”

John made a distressed noise. There was nothing about this that was good.

Tom shushed him again and bent down to brush their cheeks together. Finally, he let go of John’s wrist as he made a move for John’s hips instead. John tried to bolt and Hamish grabbed his neck.

“You have a nice room,” Tom said gently.

“Ta,” John said. He backed into Hamish. 

“I’m sorry.” Tom knelt, putting him at John’s height. “I came on a bit strong. I know presenting as an Omega must have been scary for you. I was just overwhelmed.” Tom picked up one of John’s discarded shirts on the floor and rubbed it against his face. He shuddered. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever scented.”

“Ta,” John said again.

“I had hoped if this went well, I could have your blessing to discuss a bonding contract with your father. What do you say?”

John stared.

“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” Tom moved closer, inching forward on his knees. “I’m trying hard to keep myself in check.” He breathed in John’s shirt again before he placed it on John’s desk. “Would you like to try again? Without your father shoving you on me? I was hoping.” Tom inched in, their chests almost touched. “If I,” he trailed off and reached up towards John's neck.

No.

John swung himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. He shoved his head in-between his knees and dug his hands into his legs, trying to curb his panic.

Nothing bad had happened. He repeated it several times over, willing himself to accept it. He had bit the Alpha and Harry had taken him into her room where she had shoved both of them out onto the scaffolding that covered the left side of the building. The government had run out of money to finish the project, at least according to the building manager. 

John hit his leg. That was no way to think. This was his bedroom; not a nest. Hamish was dead. Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone up here anyway. But. John flexed his hands. He wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. This was why he never spent his suppressed heats in the flat. Too many bad memories followed him. 

Carefully, John picked out and donned his bathrobe from his wardrobe and headed downstairs. He paused on the landing before hesitantly stepping into the sitting room and nearly stepping right back out. Sherlock’s scent drenched the main parts of the flat. Anyone with a hint of a nose would know this was Alpha territory and that was perfect and terrifying and overwhelming and exactly what he needed.

John locked the door behind him and sunk into Sherlock’s scent, letting it soothe his raw Omega instincts. It worked surprisingly fast, tempering down the simmering panic that prickled his skin and had haunted him since he woke up. The incessant need to continually glance over his shoulder for ghosts eased. He moved to the couch and sat down.

His fingers tapped against his knees. The street lights were still on. It was raining and it was early enough that he could still hear it chattering with the pavement. He shifted and through the dim he spotted Sherlock’s blue dressing gown abandoned on the coffee table.

In a split-second decision, John reached for it before holding it up to his face and taking a needy inhale. Bloody hell. He shoved his face into it and let out an embarrassing whine. Sherlock had to have put this on before having a shower. He always smelled the strongest in the morning, walking around the flat and presenting his scent as casual as he pleased.

John laid down on the couch and draped it over his head, completely disappearing into the warm, familiar scent. Something in him settled, some wayward Omega instinct that John was too tired to puzzle out. It felt like coming home. He took the scent in again and finally, was able to close his eyes and sleep.

John had presented at thirteen, to his confusion. Neither he nor Harry understood and Hamish was too pissed off his tits to notice. Omegas were a foreign concept only on the telly or in the royal family. They didn’t exist in council flats in Chelmsford. The only one to notice was a school nurse when John came in with stomach cramps that weren’t. Even then, it took Hamish several days to sober up enough to manage them to the doctors.

“I thought you were supposed to smell sweet,” was what Harry had said. “You smell like. I don’t know. Like mum’s old perfume bottles.”

That was to be expected, John had learned while lying face down on an examination table. He had tried not to cry while the doctor chatted away above him. His legs had been spread and strapped down as a cold speculum pushed into his arse searching for his vaginal cavity.

Omegas smelled soft—the quiet moments when everything just seemed to hush. British poets described it like the first burst of rain in the morning or the steam curling up from a hot cup of tea. In John’s case; the perfume his mum had watered down to keep longer, left sitting in Hamish’s room after her death. A scent Harry and John thought of as home.

Baker Street always burst with Sherlock’s spiced earthy scent and under that, nestled beneath the darker notes, was John’s. That was why he was awake. Another scent had crept in, overriding his. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Unacceptable.

John swayed into a sitting position. The robe John had draped over himself had been replaced with something heavier, the Belstaff John recognized as he blinked blearily awake. Sherlock had, at some point, dragged his chair over to the couch while John slept. Autopsy reports were dumped on the coffee table, half of them askew on the floor.

Sherlock sat in one of his awkward perches, limbs askew and proving the worth of his expensive suits when the fabric stretched to accommodate. If John tried sitting like that in any of the clothes he owned he was completely sure they would just rip in half.

“Ten am,” Sherlock said. “Rough night?”

John cracked his back. “You already know the answer.”

“Just being polite.”

“Sure you were. Ta for the coat.”

Sherlock shrugged, turning back to the papers. “Familiar scents are proven to be good sleep aids.”

On the opposite, unfamiliar were counterproductive. Especially, another Omega’s. John rubbed his face. He’d just toss whatever it was in the bin and get it done with. Maybe hop in the shower after for a quick wash. John stood up and hunted.

It was the scarf.

John stared dumbly down at it. Why would Sherlock’s scarf smell like an Omega? He tried to reign himself in. The explanation was probably obvious. He picked it up and walked into the kitchen. He dropped it into the sink, amongst the washing up from yesterday, and turned on the faucet.

“Tea for me,” Sherlock said, not looking up from the papers scattered over the table.

John should use acid. Just dump it right over. There was some in the crisper that John had given up throwing out. Sherlock always replaced it. Why not. Sherlock had money to buy another scarf, ten even. And a new sink. And anything else that might dissolve.

John paused on his way to the fridge and returned to the sink. There might be hair on the scarf. Burning hair was one of the worst things John had ever had the displeasure of smelling. It would be hard to miss. And then Sherlock would notice. No good. John emptied the rest of the dish soap in and watched the water fill to the rim before turning it off.

John inhaled again, searching. A scowl turned his mouth. There was still some left. He stalked the flat, letting his nose lead him right back to Sherlock.

John flexed his hands.

“You can put the tea on the table. Mind the papers,” Sherlock said.

John leaned down towards Sherlock’s collar and sniffed. It was here. He reached for it, pulling it away from Sherlock’s skin. An Omega had scented Sherlock there.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

Sherlock’s hands held his tightly.

John had ripped the collar half-off. Christ. He stared at the fabric. He licked his lips.

“You,” John said.

You—smell—betrayed—how dare—John failed to let go.

Sherlock moved. Mistake. Another whiff of the Omega slapped John in the face. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to smell like that.

The rest of the collar pulled off as John yanked hard. It would all just have to go. Every single stitch. John tossed it in the fireplace and he needed to just bring out the matches and Sherlock would never be able to wear it ever again.

Sherlock would just need to replace everything, not only the scarf.

Easy.

Deeply, John breathed, shoving his nose against Sherlock’s warm skin. The scent was still there. Tainting and taunting. It wasn’t supposed to be there. This was John’s and Sherlock’s. John made a desperate noise. Even the shirt. He shoved Sherlock hard, out of the chair and onto the ground. Sherlock looked up at him stunned.

“John?” Sherlock asked again. “While I appreciate your capabilities in—”

Sherlock made no movement to pull off the shirt. How did Sherlock not understand? Why was he still in the bloody piece of clothing? John smothered him, dropping all his weight right on Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock let out a choked cough and he gasped. Good. It bought John a bit of time while Sherlock caught his breath.

John tore at the shirt, letting his nails dig all the way through to skin. The shirt needed to be off. The scent needed to be scoured. If Sherlock bled, that was fine. He was always injuring himself on cases, had to have eight stitches last month and Alphas healed fast. A bloke in the army had his broken arm heal in one week instead of the normal six Betas required.

Anything less was unacceptable.

Sherlock struggled to get up. He grappled his arms around John’s waist to hoist himself up and flip them over. It put his scent gland right near John’s face. There were traces there, the scent had sunk that far. John growled, deep and low, and furious, and bit down.

Pheromones burst out, filling John’s mouth and saturating the air around them. Better. A ragged moan left Sherlock’s lips and his grip slackened and John echoed with his own short moans. He dug his teeth in more, dragging them against the bruising scent gland. He hadn’t broken the skin. A good or bad thing; John didn’t know. He couldn’t focus on anything but the bloody horrid scent.

John dragged his cheek up Sherlock’s neck and stubble, rubbing his scent in as he went. He shoved their chins together and crossed over, heading to the other scent gland. Sherlock just needed to smell like John. Was that so hard?

Sherlock inhaled. “You’re in heat,” Sherlock breathed out the revelation. His hand lifted and cradled the back of John’s neck. “John?”

Sherlock tried to shift them. John refused to be budged. If Sherlock tried again, John would put him in a headlock. Rendering Sherlock unconscious from there would be simple and John could continue uninterrupted.

“The scarf,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m right here, John. Just me. There’s no other Omega.”

That was a lie.

The Omega was on Sherlock. Still. In a burst of frustration, John jerked the shirt apart, tearing the last buttons off.

“I left it at the flat yesterday so I would have a reason to go back and talk to the staff,” Sherlock continued.

John didn’t care.

He moved down. His wrists dug into Sherlock’s white skin, leaving behind streaks of red from pressure and coated him in John's own scent. He touched Sherlock’s ribs when his breath stuttered, creasing along the bones.

Sherlock had cracked a few ribs months ago falling off a skip and John had set them with his own scarf. He was the reason Sherlock breathed easy. In and out, in and out. 

Property of John Watson should be carved on Sherlock’s very bones.

Sherlock’s scent shifted and John’s own scent was changing to answer it. He shifted, feeling the drag of his own cock against his robe and the slick gathering in his arse. The arousal bloomed between them, heady, but not enough. John looked up. Sherlock’s eyes were almost black and his cheeks flushed. John preened. He’d done that. Not this other Omega.

“It was perfect,” Sherlock said, his voice catching.

It was not perfect. It was fucking awful. John scraped his nails down Sherlock’s thin trail of hair on his stomach in a warning. Sherlock took no heed to the raised marks.

“The staff had to be very careful in fetching it and it gave me the opportune time to ask questions.”

Sherlock never wore a belt. All his posh trousers fit against his hips perfectly. John slid his fingers under the waistband and wrenched it down. Sherlock made a noise of protest.

“John,” Sherlock said. He reached for John.

John gorged his fingers into Sherlock’s hips, bruising them. They’d be gone by the evening. Maybe John needed to burn them in. Like a brand. They had a poker by the fireplace, John had never used one in his life.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock tried again.

Alright for who, exactly?

This was all shite. John said something. His words gibberish to his own ears. He wanted to let go. To get up. Head to his room. Curl up under the sheets, gun in hand. 

John dropped his dead weight on Sherlock’s legs and kept one arm firmly pressed down on Sherlock’s stomach. Slowly, John went over every inch of skin with his cheeks, humming as it began to finally smell just like them and no one else. He ripped off the pants next.

John bowed his head into the dip of Sherlock’s pelvis and breathed in. Sherlock only smelled like Sherlock. Good. He smeared himself against Sherlock’s thighs and threaded his free fingers through Sherlock’s trimmed pubic hair.

Jealousy flared up. A bloke didn’t trim around his cock because he felt like it. John rumbled without noticing. Sherlock started making shushing noises and his own softer version of the rumble, trying to comfort John. That wasn’t good enough.

John abandoned Sherlock’s thighs and moved straight to his cock. If John put himself here, the other cunt would know to fuck right off. John began with his cheeks. He ran them from the base of the knot, already half-filled, to the crown pushing out of the foreskin and back down, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s gasps and fluttering hands as they struggled to find what to touch. His hot prick bobbed against John’s face, scribbling pre-cum on his skin, as he went over it in its entirety.

John replaced his cheeks with his tongue and repeated the process. Up and down with drags of his tongue. Sherlock had also shaved a bit of his cock, right at the base, the stubble was rough. John had missed that with his cheeks. He flicked his tongue around the knot, following the growing curve and bulging veins, his mouth almost touching.

Slick would be better. It would sear John’s scent on Sherlock more than his saliva. He hesitated. Sherlock was an Alpha. And slick was. No. Scent and his tongue would have to be enough. Should be enough.

Sherlock growled; a low sound that sunk into John’s blood. John moved his arm to hold Sherlock’s cock still from bobbing and found himself pulled up in a grip stronger than it had the right to be.

Sherlock flipped them.

John stared up stunned, gasping for breath.

Sherlock’s eyes were black, a pale sliver of color almost winking out. He leaned down, tucking his head in the curve of John’s shoulder.

“Omega,” Sherlock said. “Only you.”

Good.

No.

This was John’s fault.

“Shh.” Sherlock returned John’s nose to his scent gland. “See. Only you.”

Pleasure bubbled up.

No Alpha had ever said that.

John dragged his nose back and forth over Sherlock’s scent gland and then sucked. Sherlock grunted and started grinding. His cock slipped through John’s robe pushing hotly against his thigh. Sherlock grabbed John’s legs and bent him, leaving him almost naked and gasping.

Sherlock’s cock slotted right next to John’s own, moving down and up, catching on some of the slick leaking down the curve of John’s arse. For a few blinding moments, John wished Sherlock slipped a bit further down. It had been so long since any Alpha had nudged inside to take care of him. And John was a good Omega. Such a good Omega. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t trust Alphas to tend him.

Their cocks rubbed against each other, back and forth and John babbled.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded. “You’re such a good Omega.”

Sherlock came, surrounding John in his scent of happy, content, aroused Alpha. It was blissful. A shot of endorphins straight to his prick. Sherlock jerked forward as his cock emptied itself in spasms and he bit down on John’s neck.

John came.

Slick gushed out onto the carpet and his cum mixed with Sherlock’s on his stomach. Perfect. Sherlock reeked of him.

Sherlock held himself above John, rapidly blinking and searching John’s face. Carefully, he let John’s legs down to rest on the floor. He tucked John’s robe back around him and he scented the air several times.

“Do you smell that John?” Sherlock asked with more caution than John had ever seen him use. “Just us.”

Of course, he did. Of course.

The bloody carpet would smell like them for months.

“Yeah,” John answered hoarsely.

Sherlock rolled off John and stood up.

“Well, that was unfortunate,” Sherlock said pulling up his own pants and trousers.

He offered his hand to help John up. John ignored it and Sherlock shrugged.

Unfortunate.

Right.

The floor was hurting his back.

“Was it the Omega from yesterday that set your heat off?” Sherlock asked. He picked up his shirt and frowned at it. 

“Yeah. Think so.”

“We’ll just have to avoid that in the future. I can synthesize a scent for us. Probably. I’ll need some of your ejaculate and I’ll need to run tests. Hold still, John. I’ll be right back.”

John stood.

Slick dripped off of him onto the floor, making small wet dots. A few bits dripped on his feet.

“Alright. Um.”

“It was the most practical solution,” Sherlock said, a delighted look crossing his face as he reappeared with a test tube. “Quite successful, by the looks of it. Full cognitive functions back. I do enjoy being right.”

Sherlock lifted the back of John’s bathrobe and ran a metal spatula against his arse, collecting slick. Sherlock went over several times, each time depositing whatever he scraped up in the test tube.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock’s cum was making John’s robe stick to his stomach.

“You might have ruined all my clothing,” Sherlock offered with a quick grin. “Can’t have that.”

“Alright. I’m for the loo,” John said.

“I’m not done. Just a few more minutes. Really, John.”

“Yeah. Um. I’m going to pop in the shower. I’m sure you have enough.”

John stepped away despite Sherlock’s continued protests. It was all a big cock-up. He headed to the loo, not once glancing back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up not working on this for a few days during the holidays. WIll be back to the 4/5 day update schedule after this. On a side note, have you ever counted how many tables John and Sherlock have in the flat? They have three, plus the coffee table. Two in the kitchen and one in the main room. I was a bit boggled when I realized I had to describe which table in which room. I've had to split this chapter, it ended up being almost double the length. As consequence, I'm bumping the total chapters up as I realized a later chapter would have the same problem.

The water from the shower turned cold.

Steam still clinging to the walls and ceiling condensed and slowly dripped down. John sat in the tub with his legs stretched out and watched his skin wrinkle. The neutralizer soap bumped against his heels, turning around the drain in circles. There was a nice dent in the corner. He had thrown it at the wall—several times. He nudged it with his toe, forcing it to change directions.

He picked up his shampoo, a present from Sherlock, and squeezed the opaque liquid out into his fingers. The shower washed it off his hand. He dumped more out and set the shampoo back. Goosebumps freckled over his arms.

He sunk further into the tub, the porcelain tugging at his skin and his neck sagged against the corner. There was a rust spot by his knee. Another halfway up by his thigh. He didn’t know how long they had been there.

The sodden bandage on his neck began to slip, millimeter by millimeter. He had only bothered with one piece of tape. Just a quick shower, he had thought. The bandage trickled down more. The bruise peaked out, already dark. He stared at it. Hooked.

The bite was a problem.

Sherlock had only managed to break John’s skin with the top half of his teeth. It wouldn’t keep. His fingers ghosted along his scent gland. The bandage slumped down his chest. The actual punctures were hard to make out of the fist-sized bruise. He had dumped antiseptic over the entire thing without care before stumbling into the shower. It still needed to be properly cleaned. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to manage it.

The deeply Omega part of John wrenched itself in-between two polarizing reactions, giving him whiplash. He hated it. Control was illuding him. He desperately wanted to preen, to frame the bite on his shoulder and hang the picture in the flat. He’d make a blog post about it for people to read and finally buy those rubbish shirts designed to show off his scent gland. People should be jealous. After years and years of nothing an Alpha had finally taken notice enough to try and bond him.

Try was the operative word.

What was left after the fierce surge of pride was failure. Not the easy kind that was solved with a cup of tea or a few episodes of crap telly. It was standing over a body in the operating room and hearing the heart monitor flatline and watching the lungs stop moving. Utterly paralyzing in the amount of space it consumed and the resounding knowledge that he had tried and it wasn’t good enough.

The failed bondbite was all John’s fault.

Never mind that neither Sherlock nor John wanted a bond. That didn’t matter one bloody bit. He wanted to get on his knees and beg at Sherlock’s feet. He wanted to press his face into Sherlock’s stomach and feel the rumble of his breathing. There had to have been something he could’ve done differently. Alpha had come so close. If he could just fix what went wrong. Because he was a good Omega. He wasn’t useless.

John banged his head against the tiled wall.

The cold water hit him in the face.

He sputtered and pulled his head out.

All the slick and cum had washed away and he had spent at least half the time watching the bar of soap go round and round in circles. The drain probably needed to be cleaned. Too bad he couldn’t just dump the acid down that.

He covered the bite with his hand. The other problem was Sherlock. Parsing that out was too much. He slumped down the tub until he was able to toe-off the water. He stared at the showerhead, watching as the last vestiges of water collected and dropped.

Fast then slow than not at all.

He gripped the edge of the tub and hoisted himself up. He grabbed a towel off the rack and slung it around his hips and kicked his robe further into the corner, refusing to put it back on. He’d rather buy a new one than deal with it.

John’s hand shook on the doorknob. He wanted to laugh at himself. Get a grip, Watson. He forced himself to turn the handle and step into the hallway and almost tripped over the neat pile of clothes that had been stacked on the hallway floor.

Sherlock tucked his head into the archway from the kitchen. His eyes darted from John’s shoulder scar to his scent gland. Sherlock sniffed. There was nothing to smell. After the Beta hormones and shower, John smelled like nothing.

“I took the liberty of selecting your clothes for the day,” Sherlock said after a stretch of silence.

“Er. Alright,” John said.

John stared at Sherlock. They had frotted on the floor an hour ago and Sherlock had picked out clothes for him to wear. Right.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked when John held still.

“No. Sorry, sorry. I mean. Thanks. Really. Thanks.”

John tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“I set up diffusers in the flat and your room in accordance with the NHS guidelines,” Sherlock said after another pause.

“Alright.” John’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Didn’t you?”

“Hmm. They’re new ones.”

“Mycroft?”

“He had them delivered. An early Christmas present. Are you going to get dressed?”

“Right.”

“The food is getting cold. Get dressed.”

“Food?”

“Yes. Food. The thing you insist I ingest at extremely annoying intervals. Hop to it.”

John scooped up the clothing and ducked back into the bathroom to dress. He applied a new bandage to his neck and did his collar up all the way. There was no reason for anyone to see his scent gland.

The table in the main room was covered with takeaway. There were two boxes from the local chippy, the exact same dishes from the dodgy Chinese place down the street that they had ordered last week, the sandwich box John often grabbed from Speedy’s on the way to the clinic, and several bags from Angelo’s.

John had to keep himself from laughing. Sherlock bristled.

“Expecting company, are we?” John asked, his laughter leaking into his voice.

“The medical journals you keep all state a copious amount of nutrients are needed to keep an Omega in good health. They had varied recommendations.”

“Right,” John said. He sat down and opened a few of the boxes. “Well, I am starving.”

“Good.” Sherlock sat down across from him.

“You going to eat any of this?”

“It’s all for you.”

A whisper of delight floated along his skin. Alpha was feeding him. A smile broke on his face before he managed to cull it.

“Really,” John said.

“Not hungry.”

“Bollocks. What do you want? I’ll dish some out.”

“I won’t eat it.”

“Chef’s choice, then.”

John ripped the styrofoam top off one of the chippy boxes and loaded it with chips and half a sandwich.

“Start with that,” John instructed.

He opened one of Angelo’s bags and started eating out of the box with a plastic fork that had been in the bag. He was hungry. Not enough to eat anywhere near the amount Sherlock had ordered in but probably at least two. More like three. Sherlock regarded his makeshift plate with distrust.

“You like chips,” John reminded. “It’s one of the only things I see you actually eat outside of a proper breakfast.”

Sherlock picked up one chip and bit the end off. He chewed then popped the rest in his mouth. John ignored the curl of pleasure at Sherlock eating food John gave him.

“Now, at least thirty more of those to go,” John said.

Sherlock slowly ate four more throughout John’s pasta dish. When John started tucking into the other half of the sandwich, Sherlock folded his hands together and pinned John with his gaze.

“What I did, was it not good?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry?” John asked.

“This morning.”

John stopped eating. 

“Right.”

“It seems I made you uncomfortable.”

“Right,” John repeated. 

John put the sandwich down and folded it back in its wrapping. He cleared his throat.

“You want to talk about that?” John asked after a beat.

“I believe it would be remiss not to. I find myself with very few friends, John. I would like to resolve any problems that would make you less amiable towards me.”

“Why don’t you say that when you leave toes next to the leftovers?” John asked.

“I did say danger.”

“It doesn’t have to be body parts in the fridge.”

“The recommended response to heat rage is intercourse,” Sherlock said, dragging the conversation back to the track he wanted. “Given your lack of relationships with Alphas I had assumed that once in your right mind, you would be strongly against any penetration. I thought frotting was a good compromise seeing as you obviously enjoy penile stimulation with your Beta girlfriends.”

“Sorry. What?”

“Am I right?”

“Penile stimulation. Alright.” John echoed.

“Am I right?”

“No. No. I enjoy it. Penile stimulation.” John winced through the last words. “Christ.”

“I thought so,” Sherlock said smugly. “You do have a rather large penis for an Omega male. Most textbooks put them several inches smaller. I suppose your Betas find it adequate.”

John looked to the ceiling. “Sherlock. Why are we discussing my—” John made a gesture down to his crotch.

“I had wondered if you were upset at the size difference.”

“Right.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then I am a bit unsure of the source of your distress. Normally, your emotional swings are easy to puzzle out. Hardly a puzzle at all, really. More like unnecessary subtitles.”

“Emotional swings. Do you mean normal reactions?”

“You’re avoiding the question. Stop it.”

John flexed his hands over his thighs. He shrugged and pulled his eyes off the ceiling. “You said this stuff wasn’t your area.”

“It’s not.”

“There you go then.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can I get that on a recording?”

“John. Please.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think, hm? You said this wasn’t your area. We had sex because you thought it would help me.”

“It did help. You were hardly capable of having this type of converse earlier.”

“Right. You only had sex with me because my hormones were throwing a fit.”

“I’ve had sexual relations for far less.”

“Cocaine?”

“How?” A disgruntled look contorted Sherlock’s face. “Mycroft.”

“Yeah. Might’ve said something.”

“There you go. Knowing my history should erase whatever sentiment you’re stuck on regarding my virtue.”

“Look. That makes me feel like a tit, actually.”

“I hardly see why.”

“Have you ever had sex just for sex? Sex you’ve enjoyed?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “How is that relevant?”

“Do you enjoy sex?”

“Not as much as you do, apparently. Are these things you discuss with your friends?”

“Well, we were talking about the size of my dick. So, I don’t think a lot is off-limits.”

“Talking about sexual intercourse seems boring. Bees would be more interesting.”

“You would. Did you?”

“What?”

“Enjoy it?”

“I ejaculated. I believe enjoying it is a precursor.”

“It's really not.”

John could come with a cock up his arse and hate every moment of it.

Sherlock stared him down. “That’s it then. You’re upset because we had sex and you think I didn’t enjoy it.”

“No.” Well, maybe. The most basic understanding of it. John wasn’t going to say any of that. “It’s just. You’re not mad? I tossed you on the ground and basically forced myself on you.”

“I’m not some blushing maiden you were having your way with. I was aware of my actions the entire time.”

“You would have never had sex with me otherwise.”

“No.”

John made a frustrated noise. “That’s the problem.”

“You killed someone for me the day we met.”

“So? It’s not the same, is it?”

“You weighed the consequences of going to jail for a man you had known less than two days and then made an educated choice. I saw my best friend going mad from instincts and then made an educated choice. Different consequences, but choices of similar magnitude, I expect.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock aggressively ran his hands through his hair. “You would have done the same!” He finally shouted.

“What?”

“You would have! If it had been me. If I had been the one half-mad due to some horrid, insipid backward evolutionary draw of instincts and the best logical solution was to frot like morons on the floor you would have done it.”

John stared at him stunned. It was true. Every bit of it. There was nothing John Watson wouldn’t do to save Sherlock Holmes. He’d die for him. Frotting on the floor didn’t even touch it.

John cleared his throat and looked away. “Ah. Yeah. I would.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is!” Sherlock snapped, jerking back in his chair and tapping his feet against the floor in frustrated movements.

John let out a shaky breath. “I would have knocked you unconscious if you tried to stop me,” John confessed. His hands trembled and he gripped his knees. “I don’t know where I would have stopped. “

Sherlock held himself still. He stood and crossed over to John. He squatted down to meet John’s gaze and covered John’s shaking hands. 

“I say this with the utmost sincerity,” Sherlock started, “even if my words are lacking to convey the sentiment. There is nothing your instincts may force you to do that would cause my regard for you to diminish. And I will make this clear, there is very little, John, that anyone can force me to do. Including you. If I had found it truly abhorrent, I would have found another solution.”

John swallowed. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Sherlock echoed. He let go.

John waited. He let the hot feeling in his throat ease before trying to speak again.

“You still have chips to eat,” John tried to say lightly. He quirked a grin. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Sherlock poked them with disdain. “I believe they’ve gone off.”

“I’ll put them in the microwave then.”

“Ah,” Sherlock shifted, looking guilty.

“What’s in there. Just say it.”

“A rather temperamental experiment. I can have it cleaned out by tomorrow.”

John closed his eyes. Relief bubbling up. Back to normal.

“I’m not eating cold pasta for the rest of the day.”

Sherlock huffed but stood and sulked towards the kitchen. “We could just use the oven,” Sherlock called out.

“No, don’t think so,” John called back.

John situated himself in his chair and fiddled with his phone, opening his email.

“Why not? Some culinary blogs even recommend it.”

“You read culinary blogs?”

“It’s chemistry, John.”

“Why don’t you just pop it open and see if it’s good for a bit of warming up.”

The oven door clattered open. The stud house had sent an email. John licked his lips and clicked on it. They had forwarded the contact information for the two Alphas that John had picked out. They were both blokes. He had been hoping for a bird.

It wasn’t that John didn’t find men attractive. He did. He had just learned not to look, even when he noticed them. Because he did. Notice. Sherlock especially as of late.

Men were just complicated.

And tended to be violent.

John had learned very quickly that being Omega and male wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Even with Alphas. Which was fine. It was all fine.

Some figured John was a woman with a cock and no tits. For others, he was the kink for the day, a once in a lifetime experience and twice a bet between mates at the local. He was a twatted bint, and punched because what was a bloke doing with a cunt up his arse or what was wrong with him because obviously, something was.

Pheromones were also a giant bloody mess; creating problems like this morning. Worse, really, if he thought about it.

He’d rather not.

But the memory was there.

“What did you burn in here?” Sherlock shouted. “It’s all stuck!”

“Wasn’t me. Try again,” John said.

“I certainly don’t mummify food to the bottom of the oven.”

“It’s not food!”

At least today had been with Sherlock and not some random cunt from a bar who had gotten a whiff and decided to pin John to the wall. It happened a few times when he’d bought bad suppressants off his dealers and he went somewhere public. The worst part of it was he ate the entire bloody thing up. He craved some big, strong Alpha just hoisting him up and impaling him on their cock. Especially on heat days.

Sherlock could walk up to John, order him to strip and bugger him right over his chair and John wouldn’t make a sound of protest. He’d encourage it. Probably try to fuck himself back onto Sherlock’s prick for good measure.

Christ.

John rubbed his face. Let out a breath.

Even at the thought he was hard. He tapped the side of the phone. Sherlock rattled around in the kitchen. John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was crouched down in front of the oven, trying to scrape something up, a slide in his other hand. The dick was trying to put the burned bits under a microscope. Of course. What else did one do with mysterious burnt shite in the oven? John almost laughed.

“Remember the ‘boring’ case involving a car fire?” John said.

Sherlock glanced up at John. “Why would I remember a boring case? Deleted it. Complete waste of space.”

“Try undeleting it. Or recovering it. Or whatever you call it.”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and continued to bang around. John stared at the little photo icon and clicked on it. Both blokes were fit. Or they were wearing white t-shirts a few sizes too small. And young. Christ. He moved the phone closer to his face.

The first one looked too much like Sherlock; thin and tall and dark brown hair and eyes stuck in the in-between of colors. The second was handsome in the typical Alpha way, sturdy shoulders, a strong jaw, and he was still on the thin side but John spotted the outline of defied muscles. That wouldn’t do. John never made it far without needing to stop anymore. He had to have as much control as possible. He should’ve selected females only on the intake form.

John clicked on the first one again—he really was similar. Maybe that would make it better. John scrolled down and browsed through a handful more. The Alpha went from fully clothed to nothing. He stood naked, his cock fully flushed, knot half popped. The next picture was a close-up. And the one after. John coughed and went back to the body of the email.

“I was testing melting points of various household plastics,” Sherlock stated. “I don’t know if I finished it. Did I finish it? The results must have been unsatisfactory.”

“You set Mrs. Hudson on us for a few days,” John replied. “The smell was complete rubbish.”

“Seems a waste. That data could have been useful to future cases.”

“Not going to clean it then?”

“Why bother. I don’t cook. You don’t cook.”

John cleared his throat pointedly. “And the microwave.”

“I’ll just ask Mrs. Hudson to heat it.”

“Not your housekeeper.”

Finley Clarke was the first Alpha’s name. He was twenty-seven. That had to be one of the reasons he smelled so good. Young Alphas were in the prime of their life. John had over ten years on him. Finley was probably expecting some slip of an Omega that hadn’t even hit twenty. He’d take one look at John and laugh.

John sneaked a look at the last picture again. Finley’s prick looked—nice. John had never spent much time looking at cocks other than his own or the overly done up ones in porn. He wasn’t quite sure how it compared. He barely remembered Sherlock’s from this morning. Just how smooth it felt against his cheek, how it tapped against his skin as Sherlock thrummed with arousal and how little it tasted of anything as he licked it. He should not be thinking about that. Absolutely not.

John licked his lips and shifted.

Bollocks.

His prick pressed tightly against his zip. He used to love this, that he was able to get going so quickly. Made for a day or two of great wanking or a few fantastic rounds with whatever woman he had charmed into bed. After this cocked-up morning, John was scared to enjoy it. He had bloody well lost his mind. Even if Sherlock dismissed it John had still. Well. He had never wanted to be like those Alphas.

John made the mistake of glancing back at his phone.

The problem of being in heat was that arousal never really went away. It was tempered down by hormones and nudged to the backburner with the extra Beta shot he wasn’t even supposed to take. But it was always there.

The knot looked large. It would feel nice up his arse as it filled out, stretching him. It’d feel nice now. It had been a long time since he’d been bounced on someone’s prick. Alphas never let him. A Beta had. Once. If Sherlock sat down, John could probably persuade him to let John help himself.

John needed to fuck right off.

Or get a grip.

Christ. 

John turned his phone off. His heat would break tonight. All he had to do was tuck himself away in his room. Maybe have another wank. More like several. Start a new book. Keep away from Sherlock. He obviously had very little control. Who even considered asking their best mate if they could bugger themselves off on their said cock? Sherlock wouldn’t even enjoy it.

“How much more will you eat?” Sherlock asked, leaning into John’s chair, and putting him too close. “The amount varied per study.”

John licked his lips and tried to lean away. Sherlock’s scent wafted down. And John was dropped back into the morning. On the floor with Sherlock covering him. Lost in his endless loop of arousal. His cock was very interested in that.

Hastily, John stood.

“No need. Going to pop upstairs for a bit,” John rushed out.

Sherlock regarded him and frowned. “You’re going to go masturbate.”

“Er.”

“For a sexually active man you’re very shy discussing your sexual habits.”

“Right. I’ll just be off,” John said with an awkward gesture.

“Do you want my help?” Sherlock asked.

John turned back around. “Sorry, what?”

“Help. Studies mentioned the presence of an Alpha helped Omegas achieve orgasm a near 50% faster.”

“No. Why are you even reading up on it?”

“Seemed imperative with you going on your suppressants that I update my knowledge on Omegas.”

“Right. I’m fine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Other studies implied that Omegas were unable to achieve orgasm alone during their heat if they had already copulated with an Alpha.”

“We didn’t copulate.”

“No. We rutted against each other like two drunk imbeciles, but I’m inclined to think that the point still stands.”

“Yeah. No. I’m good. Ta.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Right.”

John fled to his room.

All of John’s aids were shoved in the back of his wardrobe in a duffle bag that Sherlock had only gone through once then declared boring. He only owned a few, mostly small ones that were unobtrusive and easy to introduce to one time or short-term partners. He always wanted a little something in his arse during suppressed heats. It didn’t have to be a full-on monster Alpha cock. A moderate dildo or a self-inflating knot did the job. As long as it was something to clench against while he came, it suited.

He removed the largest toy he had and eyed it. The green dildo had seen little use over the years. It was designed for a full-on heat with several buttons at the base to adjust knot width and the overall length of the shaft. A bit dangerous. Seeing as the full length mimicked a size Alphas only achieved during an Omega’s heat. If John pressed the wrong button, injuring himself was on the table. Still. It’d probably do.

Rubbing lube into every crease and rib the toy sported, John slicked it up and then fiddled with the settings. He opted for the gradually growing knot and a barely larger length. Any longer and it chanced to hit his O-gland, which was tucked just inside his vaginal cavity, and doing that without someone to provide aftercare was shite. Who was John kidding? Even with someone, it was shite. It was lucky if he got a pat on the shoulder after.

Just best to avoid it altogether.

He stripped and checked himself out. His arse had trace amounts of slick still. His fingers stroked along his inner walls and his body accommodated him as he pressed a third finger in. He removed them. The dildo would be fine. He secured it to the chair using the optional wall attachment. Just to be a bit cheeky. He might as well enjoy something today.

John lined his arse up with the tip, his front facing the back of the chair. He teased himself a bit, letting the head push in and out, blunting open the edge of his arse before his body tried to greedily suck it up. The first stretch always did it. The quick burn and adjustment as his body realized this was exactly what it wanted. He stopped as he realized he was letting in more and more, seeking for something to hit much further in.

Slowly, John sunk down. He went bit by bit, his breathing picking up the more he took. The ridges dragged upwards, making him gasp and grasp the back of the chair to steady himself. The top of the dildo finally pressed as far as the setting allowed, just at the beginning of his inner folds. Tempting him with the thought.

He sat fully seated and almost stunned. His bum rested on the cold wood of the chair and the rubber-coated base of the toy. It really had been years since he allowed himself this. Beta women who enjoyed strapons used smaller Beta sized models. Nothing this big.

“Fuck,” John rasped.

The machinery of the dildo clicked on. The knot pressed out, opening him up. John keened. This was what he was made for, some desperately Omega part of him whispered.

John bowed his head and grabbed the back of the chair with both hands. He had fucked a Beta in the army like this. Some bloke who just wanted to get his dick wet. John had shoved him down and done the work and God it had felt good. He remembered the Beta’s stunned gaze, his mouth stuck open in surprise. His hands had dug into John’s thighs, not knowing where to touch.

Letting out a shaky breath, John moved. He set a brutal pace, using his arms to pull him up as much as his legs lifted. The dildo was hard and unyielding and punishing at John’s speed, forcing him open rather than encouraging.

He relished it.

The thought of an Alpha under him, large hands yanking him down over and over and just fucking him, letting slick slap between them on every thrust as their skin rubbed red. The Alpha chasing the pop of his knot as the bulge grew to where it caught and pulled on every thrust and jerk and prod. John made a noise.

How he wanted.

Sherlock in his chair. Legs spread wide. His prick standing tall and proud and hot through his fly. His large hands holding John’s arse apart. Maybe one of those on John’s cock instead, teasing at the crown. His steady, focused gaze on John as he moved up and down, coating Sherlock’s prick in slick.

The head of the toy pushed past the beginning of his inner folds, bobbing against the softer tissue, forcing John to hunch forward with choked moans. His legs trembled, and the knot pushed further out, opening him for more cum. His walls chased the feeling, squeezing the knot and the shaft and fluttering around the crown, trying to pull out an Alpha’s release.

Nothing happened.

His legs continued to quiver and his inhales shuddered in-between moans and desperate gasps, his cock jerked weakly and he kept clenching. The edge held him. Unbearably so. John reached a shaking hand towards his cock. He gave himself a few jerks, almost losing his grip to overstimulation. His hand seared against his prick and he dropped it, whining. Not enough.

John let out a frustrated grunt and pulled himself off the toy. He gasped at the sudden emptiness and in relief at the same time as the constant hovering right on the precipice faded. That was supposed to get him off—it always did during his suppressed heats. Had to be the angle.

“John,” Sherlock said.

John whipped his head around. He had not heard Sherlock come up the stairs or open the door. Sherlock made no move to enter. He held out his wrist to John, in a traditional greeting. A snarl curled on John’s face. He did not want an Alpha here.

“May I come in, John?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. No. This was John’s room. His nest. Alphas weren’t allowed. Sherlock frowned at him

“Omega,” Sherlock cooed. Bloody bastard. “Let me take care of you.”

Those words were like water in the desert. John whined before he realized. Sherlock pulled back his wrist and dug his fingers in, spreading his scent into the room. John’s body reacted almost instantly. Sherlock—Alpha was here. It was alright.

“I was right,” Sherlock said. “You can’t get off, can you?”

John glared at him. That had to be obvious. John stood in the middle of his room, cock untouched and jutting straight out, leaking useless pre-cum. A dildo was stuck on the chair behind him, having a little vibrate every thirty seconds, shaking some slick off every rotation and the knot expanding in increments. And. To top it off, John’s arse looked like it had just hopped out of the shower. He should be mortified.

“Oh, fuck off,” John managed.

“I don’t believe you’d appreciate that right now. Either option.”

No. John wanted the toy back in his arse and he wanted to come and forget about this entire day that continued to go from one fucked up scenario to the next. The studies Sherlock had quoted earlier were true. Omegas in heat imprinted on the first Alpha they fucked and Alphas did the same. It was to ensure that the Alphas stayed throughout the heat. Utter rubbish that frotting on the floor with Sherlock counted.

“Help or piss off, then,” John snapped.

Sherlock grinned at him and entered. Oh, God. What did John get himself into? “Pop on the bed. A good place to start. I think,” Sherlock said.

John stared at him before turning on his heels and situating himself on the sheets. Sherlock pried the dildo off the chair and gave it a bit of a shake, a curious expression stealing across his face.

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Do be patient, John,” Sherlock answered.

“I’m not waiting for you to examine my dildo. Come over and make me come. Or I’ll shove you on the damned floor like earlier.”

Shite. John closed his eyes. That was not the thing to say. The bed dipped down under Sherlock’s weight.

“On your front,” Sherlock instructed.

No. No.

“Alright. Shh,” Sherlock soothed. “How about on your back, is that better, John?”

Yeah.

John rolled off his side. He flexed his fingers and pried his eyes open. Sherlock watched him with open curiosity as he grabbed a few pillows. John lifted his hips off the bed and Sherlock propped John’s arse up.

Sherlock’s long fingers tested around John’s arsehole and John rolled his eyes to the ceiling. They were slightly cold and dry but they carefully, almost tenderly, urged him open. The head of the dildo replaced the fingers after a few moments and Sherlock pressed it in.

“All the way in, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.”

Please, just shove it. John kept the thought to himself. It was already nearing too much. Sherlock did the opposite. He eased it in, letting John feel the drag of every bump and the stretch as the bulging knot pushed in.

John reached for his cock and started stroking. Nothing fancy, just efficient jerks to get him off. Sherlock stilled John’s hand and replaced it with his own, mimicking what had been John’s movement.

Then, John heard the click of a button.

No. That was.

The knot pulsed, popping to its second widest option, spreading him near the point of burning. Pleasure zipped up his spine as it kept going, plugging him, and carving out space for the Alpha to stuff him.

John keened.

The toy clicked as it grew. Lengthening to its last few inches, finally pushing into John’s O-gland and making his world stutter.

John was useless.

His body went limp except for his arse, which started to pulse, trying to suck the toy further in. All he could do was lay still and be fucked.

He heard his stuttering moans and the wet slap of Sherlock grinding the dildo in and out, just enough to drag the expanding knot along his arsehole and nudge the tip against his O-gland, sending sparks and flashes of heat up his body.

For a second, just a second, it felt like Sherlock’s hand was gone, and in its place was a hot, needy mouth that cupped over his glans and sucked. John couldn’t move his head to see. Christ. What he wouldn’t give to see Sherlock’s lips around his cock, his mouth stuffed with John’s prick. He loved watching women go down on him. Seeing the head poke at their cheeks and the saliva drip out of their mouths as they moved up and down. To see Sherlock doing that.

John gasped.

The knot was on its last push to expand, pulling more and more at his rim, stuffing John to where he dared not move. He still wanted more. John’s hands uselessly grasped at the sheets, not able to form a grip.

“Ah. Of course,” Alpha said.

A wrist pushed into John’s mouth.

“Bite down, John,” Alpha instructed.

John bit. Alpha’s pheromones coated his mouth and surrounded him; heady and strong and aroused. His brain lit up; it was perfect. Exactly how it was supposed to be.

His arse contracted helplessly around the toy and he came, his cock jerking against the sheets as he tried to curl on himself. The Alpha stopped him, coiling an arm around John’s stomach, running his sticky fingers over John’s skin.

“Hold still. Let it finish knotting.”

No. It was.

“John. It’s fine.”

The dildo moved, in a tortuous rubbing motion, pulling the knot against his prostrate. He felt every rib of rubber go back and forth, pressing his passage open and kneading into his O-gland, breaking him open on his bed with Alpha gently tracing his fingers over John’s prick.

The noises John gasped out were needy ah’s linking together, pitching higher and higher until they broke into sobs.

The second orgasm shuddered over him.

He went limp.

“There you are,” Alpha said.

The dildo stopped moving. John whined at the loss. Please.

“No, that’s enough, I think. You did well,” the Alpha soothed.

Well. John’s brain slowly turned over the thought. Good. Alpha was pleased. And then John jerked. There was an Alpha. Fear curdled in his gut. Alphas never took care of him. He needed to leave. John could barely twitch.

“It’s just me, John,” Alpha said. Alpha dropped his wrist right under John’s nose. “Smell.”

John tilted his nose against the offered scent gland and breathed. It smelled like home. He licked it, dragging his tongue back and forth, coaxing more scent out. He moaned.

“See,” Alpha said. “Safe. No one will hurt you here, John. Please stop making me repeat myself. It’s getting tedious.”

The Alpha ran his hands over John’s body as the knot slowly deflated and John felt heavy. His body was sinking into the mattress and eyes fought him. As John passed out, he swore he heard the steady beat of skin on skin and another man’s muffled grunts.

“Next time you masturbate, inform me,” Sherlock said.

John turned a page in the paper.

“The slick I collected yesterday was not enough to synthesize any sort of scent for the flat,” Sherlock continued.

“Some poor bird got chopped up by her boyfriend and buried in a bunch of flower planters,” John said in return.

“With your habits, you’ll indulge tonight at the earliest. Please refrain from using the shower. It’ll make it very hard to collect any.”

“Remember the robbery arson from last week? Looks like the son was the culprit. Beat his mother to death with a hammer and set the house on fire. A miracle he didn’t kill his brother.” John settled further into his chair.

“John, stop reading that drivel and pay attention, I need to know when you plan on masturbating next.”

“Oh, no. I hear you. I’m just ignoring you.” John turned another page of the paper.

“Why? You clearly hate having your personal control invalidated by your instincts. This would assure that you would retain your cognitive abilities. At least in the flat.”

“Do you plan on going out and shagging an Omega?”

“Are you joking?”

John smiled thinly. “Then I have nothing to worry about. And I don’t plan on it. Spending my heats here.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Why not? I’m hardly going to ravish you. You’d be safe in your room.” He shuffled a bit. “I wouldn’t let anyone up. No Alpha is going to show up and try to bond you.”

“Unless you feel like dealing with my dead body, which I’m sure you’d have a laugh of a time with, having a real heat here is just not on.”

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe. “Morning boys, I brought a bit of brekkie. I thought you’d both be tired with all the goings-on yesterday. John dear, should you be out of bed?” Mrs. Hudson said as she breezed into the flat.

“I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “You didn’t need to make us a full English.”

“Are you sure? I know after my heats I could barely manage to stand. Mr. Hudson might have been an unpleasant Alpha, but he had very good equipment.”

“A suppressed heat, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock corrected. “John is still on his suppressants. Three more left, is it?”

“You counted them?” John asked.

“You check my pills.”

“For an entirely different reason.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“Though, I do wish you boys had not had a round on the rug. That’s going to need to be replaced and, really, now. All someone will need to do is stick their nose up here and know what the two of you have been up to.” Mrs. Hudson tapped her nose. “I may be past my prime but I could scent it all the way from the bottom of the stairs. What happens when a client stops by, Sherlock? Do you really want them pawing at John?”

“I’m sure John would be happy to acquaint them with the barrel of his gun if they tried to paw at him.”

Mrs. Hudson pushed some of the mess off the table in the main room and set her tray down. “That’s not the proper Alpha way to behave.”

“Opposed to what? I’m sure your ex-bondmate was an excellent example.”

“No reason to get so testy and so early in the morning too. Some things just aren’t to be brought up.”

“I’ve never been concerned with proper,” Sherlock said.

“Well, what’s John to think, then? An Alpha is supposed to take care of the unpleasant things.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do do better Mrs. Hudson. John would not be here if he wanted me to ‘take care of the unpleasant things.’”

“I can take care of myself, ta,” John added.

Mrs. Hudson slapped Sherlock’s hand away from the food. “Sherlock!” She scolded. “John eats first. Really, do you not have any care for your Omega?” 

“My Omega?” Sherlock said.

“What else would you call him? I’m so happy you boys made it official. When are you planning the bonding ceremony?”

“We’re not,” John said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, but.” Mrs. Hudson fluttered her hands before frowning at the two of them. “What was yesterday about then?”

“Oh, just a good old shag on the floor. Raises morale for the troops,” Sherlock said. He grabbed toast and beans

“You should at least serve John.”

“I’m about to pop out,” John said. He smiled thinly. “It's fine Mrs. Hudson.”

“You shouldn’t be leaving the flat in your condition!”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said.

“I’ve got a date,” John said.

“A date?” Mrs. Hudson asked, scandalized. “But you spent your time here. I thought, even if you two didn’t bond, surely.”

“You’re rather quick to move on, hardly more than seven hours since you’re heat broke.”

“How’d you know when my heat broke?”

“He spent all night pacing, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It's why I thought. He was being all Alpha strutting up and down and wafting his aggressive pheromones about and his bits looked quite impressive!”

“You guarded the flat?” John asked.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snapped.

“Well, I’m not blind! I can see just fine and your trousers are already nicely tailored. If I’d been any younger I think I would have had a go.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “You can leave now, Mrs. Hudson.”

“That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson asked John. “I wouldn’t have minded a bit of a show. Sherlock is so very Alpha, isn’t he? I loved it when Mr. Hudson caved in. Very stimulating.”

John cleared his throat and folded the paper. “I think I need to pop off now.” John stood up and brushed his cheek against Mrs. Hudson’s. Harry was the only other person he dared greet like that. “Thank you for the breakfast. It was thoughtful.”

“I’d wish you stay and have some. Are you sure you’re alright going out in your state?”

“No need to worry, Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure the Beta John is seeing will be nothing but dull. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

John slipped on his jacket and toed on his shoes.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “What did you do?”

Sherlock squinted at her. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Do you need enhancers?” Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly. Sherlock started coughing. “There’s no shame in it. I don’t see any other reason the two of you didn’t bond. I’ll ask Mrs. Turner next time I see her. Her husband has been using them for a few years.”

“I’m off,” John said and escaped into the hallway.

Sherlock caught him at the bottom of the stairs, a card slipped between his fingers.

“For the taxi,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t need you to pay for my rides,” John griped.

“It’s a prepaid card for Omega taxis,” Sherlock said crisply. “I certainly can’t use it.”

“Sherlock—”

“Do me the favor of not having to fetch you from Mycroft’s schemes.” Sherlock nodded at the door. “One should be here in a few minutes.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Sherlock flickered a smile. “Please spare me of any details when you come home.”

“Git.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“That’d be the taxi, have a good time John.”

“Thanks.”

The Omega taxi was perfect. The driver was a Beta and wore gloves, leaving no extra scent for John to pick up and filter out. The inside used altered neutralizers that had trace amounts of natural smells to soften the chemical burn that swamped most public spaces. John relaxed in the back seat, enjoying a ride for the first time in months.

Finley Clarke, Finn for short, was early. John had hoped to beat him. No such luck. John sent a reply to the text. He stopped in front of the restaurant and took a deep breath. Glancing at his reflection in the glass he shrugged at himself. He looked like a right old bastard. He smoothed his hand down his shirt. He had tried to dress casually. A dark blue button-up Sherlock said he’d looked fit in and his best jeans.

Nervously, he tossed his hand through his hair and then scowled at himself. There was no reason to be nervous. John was going to go in. Meet the Alpha and decide if he wanted that Alpha to service him for his heats. If John thought the Alpha was a cunt he had to simply get up and leave.

John squared his shoulders. He refused to have a repeat of yesterday and that meant finding an Alpha. He entered the restaurant. The host smiled at him and led him towards one of the private rooms. He slid open the door and gestured John inside.

The room was simple with pale patterned wallpaper and a window for the furthest wall that looked out to a manicured garden. A dark wood table rested at its heart with two silk padded benches with low backs on either side. Finn sat on the left, in a trim blue suit and a white shirt, undone at his collar. Finn stood up, a delighted smile spreading over his face.

Right.

Into battle.

“Finn?” John asked, stepping inside.

The host closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Yeah. John?” Finn asked back.

John tried to put on a smile. Might as well do his best. “I hope so.”

“Is your chaperone running late?” Fin asked. “I did order us a starting tea service but we can wait for the rest of the courses.”

John shifted. He’d forgotten about that. Not that he had ever had one after Harry.

“Not as such. Don’t have one coming,” John said.

Finn blinked at him. “Are you sure? I have a gift.” He pushed toward two wrapped boxes that had been waiting on the seat.

“I’m a bit old for one,” John said. “Not much for a chaperone to keep modest.”

“Isn’t there?” Finn asked and grimaced. “Shite.” He grimaced again. “I’m not supposed to say that.”

John barked a laugh, surprising himself. “Yeah. Bit of a cunt for swearing in front of an Omega, mate. Better call in the national guard.”

Finn stared at him, startled, then joined in with a bright laugh of his own.

“Sorry,” Finn said when their laughter quieted down. “The house gave me a bit of a coaching. Things I wasn’t to say. Swearing and, uh, your virtue were both rather high. They had an entire script for me to follow.”

“Afraid my virtue pissed off some time in university.”

“That’s better. I think. Really.”

John licked his lips. “You sure about that? I’m not going to lay back and think of England.”

“Fantastic,” Finn said with another laugh. “I was a bit scared, to be honest. I’d never thought an Omega would pick out my profile. I was a bit relieved when I saw yours.”

“That I look like an old bastard?”

“No. That you look, well, normal. I’d be able to have a pint with you down at the local. Takes a bit of the pressure off. Oh! I forgot. I should have spent more time looking at the form. I just never thought. Here. Sorry.”

Finn quickly rubbed his wrists together, letting his personal Alpha scent bloom around him. He held his wrist out for John to take a gander. John stepped close and lifted Finn’s wrist to his nose and sniffed. Finn’s earthy notes were lighter than Sherlock’s, more akin to sandalwood, and a spark of ginger chased it--drawing John’s attention in. His eyes drifted shut and he let his nose linger with another soft inhale. That was alright. Finn shivered. The faint trace of arousal drifted between them. John let go and Finn offered another grimace.

“Sorry,” Finn said. “Really, sorry. I’m completely cocking this up.”

“First dates are always a bit rubbish.”

“Yeah. A bit.”

John returned the favor by running two fingers over his scent gland and offering them up. He held himself very still and waited. Finn gently lifted John’s hand to his nose and deeply inhaled. He held it for the expected one minute and then guided it back to John’s side. No licking, no groping. Scenting by the book. John was impressed. Finn’s fingers gave his hand one last brush. 

“You play an instrument?” John asked.

“Yes,” Finn blinked at him, surprised. “The cello. It’s what I do for a living. I’m the sub-principle for the London Philharmonic Symphony. How’d you guess?”

“Uh. Your callouses. My flatmate is a bit of a violin hobbyist, his fingers are like yours.”

“Brilliant,” Finn said with a grin. “I don’t think anyone I’ve ever met has guessed from my fingers. Ruins my gift, though.”

Finn sat down. He set the gifts on the table.

“Go on.”

“I didn’t bring anything,” John said, sitting himself down across from Finn.

“I’m the Alpha, aren’t I? You’re a gift just by showing up.”

“That’s a good line.”

“I wrote a bunch of them down,” Finn admitted. “Figured it was one less thing I’d be able to cock-up.”

“Right, then.”

“The bigger one,” Finn said nodding at the gifts.

John nudged the bow off and slid a knife under the tape to unwrap the box. The present was an I-pad and a set of concert tickets.

“You put down that you liked reading crap mystery and true crime novels. I figured, since you said you were a doctor, a tablet would be easier to carry around than some of those thick novels. It’s a full sixty-four gig. Microsoft had a more expensive one but it was more like a small computer and I’m not sure if that’d be something you’d use. Or want. The tickets are well. I’d hoped you want to come see a performance. Alright?”

“This is,” John started.

“Cheap. Yeah,” Finn said. “The house recommended 10k starting but, a bit above my pay range.”

“Really? 10k?”

Finn examined him. “Yeah. Mine are a bit less. Since we’re not really courting.”

“Er. But this is.” John made a gesture.

“Sorry. Yeah. I know. This is just expected. I thought it was. I mean. Actual courting gifts are flats or a year’s salary in jewelry. For heats I thought. I know buying one is quite a bit more. I did not mean to just imply that you were selling your heat. Sorry. So, sorry. Are the gifts alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks. I wasn’t expecting anything really.”

“Oh. You like them?”

“Yeah. They’re good.”

“Good. That’s good. I was nervous.”

“I can tell.”

Finn tried to laugh his awkwardness away. 

John wasn’t sure what to say. If Finn had been a woman John would have complimented his eyes or something about what he was wearing. He’d slide in the seat next to him and try to have a go at holding hands. He’d lean close, so Finn knew exactly where all of his attention was and he’d smile at everything Finn said.

“So,” John said, clearing his throat. “Why a stud house?”

Finn blushed slightly. He fiddled with his flatware. “I mean. I’m not much of a catch for an Omega, am I?”

Compliments John knew how to do.

“Just a bit handsome,” John said.

“You think so?” Finn asked with a quick smile.

“Come on. You have to know you’re a bit fit.”

“Yeah. I am. A bit. But that doesn’t matter much for Omegas. I just, I love being a cellist. Utterly, completely love it. It’s the kind of job you give your life for. That sounds contrite and like a load of shite, but there’s nothing else for me. This is it. I sound completely barmy. Christ.”

“No,” John rushed to reassure. “No. It's why, I’m, well. Also using a stud house, right? Look at me, yeah?” John gestured at himself. “I’m not young. Working is very important to me. I’m never going to give it up.”

“Yeah. Same. It’s never going to let me provide for an Omega. But, you know, I thought why not? I could pay the fee. It’s a once in a lifetime chance. So. Thanks. Really. Just being in a room with you is more than I ever thought I’d get.”

The two of them lapsed into silence.

“So,” John said. “Want to be a bit cheeky?”

Finn looked at him questioningly.

“Let’s go through the list.”

“The one the house gave me?”

"Yeah. What’s the first thing we’re not supposed to talk about?”

Finn pulled the document up on his phone. “Swearing was the first on the list actually.”

“We’ve already cocked that up then,” John said with a grin.

Finn smiled back. “Yeah. On to next?”

“Have at it.”

John eased the further they went into the list and as food was served. Finn wasn’t a bad choice. John would be able to take him in a fight and he was smart, didn’t talk down to John. It helped that if he stood next to Sherlock they’d look related.

John let out a breath.

He could do this.

He really could.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, all mistakes are my own.

Mrs. Taylor stayed in her chair.

“Do you have any further questions?” John asked with a fast look at his watch.

John had taken an extra patient as a favor to Sarah. That one patient had turned into five and a few hours had ticked away like nothing.

Mrs. Taylor flushed. “Um.” She grappled with Gabe as he squirmed on her lap. “I’m not sure who to ask, really. Sorry.”

John smiled mildly and crossed his fingers. “Alright. I’m all ears.”

“It’s just,” Mrs. Taylor started.

Gabe reached up and grabbed at his mum’s neck before smashing their cheeks together and cutting her off. He rubbed their faces together, babbling with childish enthusiasm. She let out a long-suffering sigh and pulled him back into sitting. John held himself back from the impulse to sniff the air.

“He does that,” Mrs. Taylor continued, hesitantly. “And such, to everything.” She paused. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

John scanned over the patient information they had on file. “We have it on record that both you and your husband are Betas.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And you had Gabe tested for A/O carrier genes at birth?”

“It was recommended.”

“And he tested positive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, all good then. It’s nothing to worry about,” John assured. It was basic, in fact. “A/O children born to Beta couples often show early signs of scenting and territory marking.”

“Yes. Alright.” She paused before pushing ahead. “He does it all the time, though. When he goes to bed, he has a go around the room and touches everything. Really, everything. Now that he can talk, he names everything he scents.”

John nodded. “It’s very much expected. A/O’s feel safest when their territory is clearly marked and established.” Sherlock liked to spray their door with some weird chemically enhanced version of his scent once a week. Everyone knew whose flat they were entering, to Mrs. Hudson’s chagrin. “With no other A/O in the household, Gabe will feel the need to compensate for it. It’s completely normal.”

“Including people?” she asked.

“Does he scent you and your husband often?”

“Over five times a day. We counted. He throws a fit when he can’t. And he’s very aggressive about it. We mock scent him, go through the motions. It was supposed to help.”

John offered a placating smile. “I promise you it is helping him. He wouldn’t be so happy if you weren’t.” John opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out several brochures and passed them over. “You’ll probably want to go to a hospital. They offer free services to A/O children with Beta parents. They’ll coach him through scenting so he isn’t so overwhelming. I’d recommend checking in at the front desk, they’ll have more information available.”

Gabe attempted to wiggle to the floor. Mrs. Taylor’s firm grip kept him on her lap and she started bouncing him on her knees to distract him. “So, it won’t, I don’t know, get better?”

“When he gets older and his scent matures, the frequency should go down.” Sherlock only actively scented a handful of objects in the flat; his violin, his chair, the skull, and John when he could get away with it. “He’ll produce enough pheromones to naturally fill his space. That will happen when he hits puberty.”

“There’s nothing we can do to curb it?”

“An A/O family member would greatly lesson it.”

Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “There’s no one. First A/O carrier in several generations. We almost didn’t get the test, to be honest. Thought there was no point. But the doctors insisted.”

“Good thing they did.”

“It just doesn’t make sense, does it? B/B couples having A/O children.”

“Genetics are fickle. As long as both you and your husband had a distant A/O relative the possibility was always there.”

“Yeah. It's just. Well. Neither of us were prepared for it.”

“There are other options. You could try an Alpha pheromone perfume. That is often a choice Beta parents go down. They find one they enjoy and use it but it is an investment you’ll need to make for a lifetime. There are Omega ones, but they’re much more expensive and synthesized ones are still illegal. I can only really recommend you attend a few of the classes at a hospital and try to find a good fit.”

“Nothing else?”

“There are still adopt an Alpha programs.”

"What?”

“It’s a very old institution and only recommended on a case by case basis.”

“Oh. Wasn’t there a film about that last year?”

John shrugged. “I didn’t watch it, I’m afraid.”

“There was one. I think it was nominated for a few rewards. The government used to assign Alpha slaves to Beta households. Very depressing. But those are the films that get all the attention, aren’t they?”

“Right. The program is much more modernized now, Alphas sign themselves up to be hosted.”

“Wouldn’t that be expensive? Isn’t it like adding another adult into the family?”

“Yeah. Very much. That’s why it's case by case. There has been new testing specifically designed to catch Omega genes that was just approved last year. If you wanted to take Gabe to be tested to see if he’s an Omega carrier, the government will front the cost of a live-in Alpha for the family.”

“No, I think the history is a bit of a put-off. A downer isn’t it? That it all started from slavery.”

“Like British tea?”

Mrs. Taylor blinked at him. “What?”

“Right. So those are the only options if you want to work with Gabe on his scenting.”

“Will he do it to other people?”

“Other people, as in?”

“Outside of the family? With us it’s just alright, isn’t it? But if he starts up when he goes to primary or playdates or I don’t know, out to the shops, will he?”

“In all likely hood, yes, as he forms attachments outside of you and your husband.”

Mrs. Taylor sighed as Gabe tried to gnaw on her fingers. She reached into her pockets and pulled out a teething ring. She eased it into Gabe’s mouth with another sigh.

“There’s no helping, it is there?” she finally asked.

“No. Afraid not.”

“Alright.” Mrs. Taylor said, a grimace crossing her face. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“My pleasure.”

John saw Mrs. Taylor and Gabe out of his office and closed the door behind them. He rubbed his face. Already nearing seven and he still needed to talk to Sarah. He paged her office.

“Finish up with Mrs. Taylor, John?” Sarah greeted.

“Yeah. Look. I was hoping I could stop by your office on my way out,” John said.

“Oh, God. You’re not quitting, are you? I promise your load will go back down after Hannah is back from her holidays.”

“No. Just some adjustments that I’ll need to make.”

“Adjustments. Okay. That’s better than quitting. I have twenty minutes before my next appointment.”

“Alright. Be right in. Thanks.”

John ended the call. He removed the required clinic diffusers and flushed the room with neutralizer with a flick of a switch. He stood under the vent, letting the chemical smell strip him. He tucked his fingers under his collar, ran them along his ears and wrists before just holding still. He used to skip this step when he never had to worry about his Beta spray fading and his scent leaking through. The neutralizer clicked off after a few minutes and he headed out.

He closed the door behind him as he joined Sarah in her office. She smiled at him when he stopped just short of her desk.

“Right,” John started. “So.” He pulled out his medical report that Dr. Jones had forwarded him and placed it in front of Sarah. He let out a nervous breath. “I know you’re not required to keep me on. But I’d like to stay.”

“Well, if you’re track record isn’t enough to sack you,” Sarah offered as a rib.

John flicked a smile and nodded at the desk. “Best read that.”

Sarah frowned at him and picked up the report. John waited as she read it. Sarah had known John was an Omega from the day he applied for the job, it was required on any official paperwork and his ID had the inlaid Omega symbol by second gender. It had made asking her out a bit easier, to be honest. He didn’t have to prep for any awkward sex talks. She got halfway down the page before stopping. She looked up at John.

“Your suppressors aren’t working?” she asked.

“They’re still working. A bit. Hardly, actually. Enough for me to still pass as a Beta but I’ve only a few days left.”

“You can’t extend the prescription?”

John shook his head. “Too many medical concerns. I still have a few days left. And then probably a bit more as my body adjusts.”

“You should have discussed this with me sooner,” Sarah said.

John had been a bit afraid of being sacked. Omegas in the workforce were already exceedingly rare and when they were, they were often in Omega focused occupations. The most popular profession was a Rut Tender, an Omega version of a prostitute, that cost upwards of one million pounds per hour to hire. Even then, there were only seventeen currently in practice. In traditional jobs there were even less. The UK claimed one other Omega doctor and they focused on researching Omega pheromones. Not a single other Omega was a GP at a clinic. No one needed John to be working.

“Sorry. I was just shocked. Wasn’t in the plans.”

“Do you plan to bond? Is Sherlock?”

“No. No bond. No Sherlock.”

“I’m surprised,” Sarah admitted. “I thought he’d jump at the chance.”

“I was telling the truth when I said just flatmates.”

“I know.” Sarah put the report down. “When will you start scenting?”

“That begs the question,” John said. “There’s no real indicator. There aren’t really any studies for my situation, best I can do is an educated guess and that is pretty shite, honestly. As soon as two days really. Maybe longer.”

“We’ll have to rotate all of your Alpha patients.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Last thing I’d want the clinic to be known for, having an Omega doctor assaulted. Could you imagine?”

“I’d probably win.”

A slight smile stole over her face. “It would make this job a bit more exciting for you. Enough to compete with cases?”

“Probably not.”

“Can’t blame me for trying. You are a very good doctor. When you show up. I’ll need to brush up on legislation for what we’ll need to provide. Will you need your own office?”

“There’s a funded program to help employers adjust to Omega employees. They offer a full free service if you apply.”

Sarah nodded. “I’m more worried about covering your heats. I’m afraid I know very little about them. I never thought the information would be helpful. How long or how frequent, do you know?”

John scratched the back of his neck.

“If I was younger, I’d be out for the full week every month. The first few months will be the worst. After that, they’ll settle. I’m older so, my heats, in theory, will be shorter not the week-long slog. Probably more around a few days. And seeing how little I already work; I’d thought it would be easy to adjust around.”

“We’ll deal with it as it comes, then?”

“I think that’s best, yeah.”

Sarah’s intercom beeped. “Mr. Waterstone has checked in,” the receptionist said.

Sarah held down the speaker button. “I’ll be right out.” She let go of the button and addressed John. “You don’t happen to have those numbers saved for those programs do you?”

John smiled with relief. She wasn’t going to sack him. “I’ll email them.”

“Alright.”

“You know,” John said as he was ducking out. “You could do a bit of adverts if you wanted more business. Could run something like ‘Home to the only practicing Omega doctor in the UK,’ would be a nice photo opt. Might even get featured on the telly.”

Sarah let out an incredulous laugh. “And how much would we charge? A fiver?”

“I’m worth more than that. At least a tenner,” John said and closed the door as Sarah waved him out with another laugh.

John rubbed his wrist on Baker Street’s door handle. A quick, casual marking. He cursed and wrenched his hand off. Quickly, he glanced around. The damp of early evening had kept most people off the pavement, he spotted a few walking by. No-one turned his way. He let out a deep breath. It was fine. No one would be able to smell a light scenting over the stench of London.

John fumbled with his work bag, pointedly ignoring the slight tremble as he struggled with the straps. He brought his hand up to his mouth and pressed. He needed to calm down. He’d scented the bloody door. It was not the end of the world. He was just going to need to pay more attention. At least he had caught it right away unlike earlier.

He had suffered through every Alpha doing a double-take as they passed his office door at the clinic. A few of them poked their head into the room with a confused expression as they spotted John instead of an obvious Omega. In an indoor space his scent had been like a beacon despite the diffusers that spritzed the hallway on timed intervals. That had continued for a good hour until a break in-between patients gave John enough time to completely neutralize it.

Scenting had been the first Omega instinct John had actively forced himself to unlearn after he fully presented. He had learned the hard way that it didn’t matter if he scoured his skin with neutralizer and drenched himself in Beta cologne if he shoved his scent around like an advert. Hamish had inadvertently spurred it on by gifting Alphas John’s favorite toys. He still vividly remembered eating breakfast only to look up and have an Alpha looming over him, with his Rubix cube clutched against their chest.

John yanked out a wipe from his workbag. He cleaned the handle thoroughly, going over it several times. The last thing he needed was random Alphas trying to come in off the street. Not a trace could remain. He watched himself as he opened the door and then closed it, firmly keeping the touching to just his fingers.

This was one habit he dearly didn’t want to unlearn.

Sherlock sat in the dark of the flat, legs stretched out across the floor. His head hung off the back of the chair and his hands clapped together under his chin. His ratty pajamas made John wonder if he’d been sitting there since he’d bothered to wake up.

“You know the lights will turn on,” John said. He flicked on the lights in the main room and dropped his work bag on the coffee table. “I’ve been paying our bills.”

“You’re late,” Sherlock said, not looking away from the ceiling.

“Do we have something on?” John asked.

“Case. Get changed.”

“You’re still in your pajamas.”

“We’re already missing the dinner service.”

John paused taking off his jacket. He glanced down at himself then back at Sherlock. “Can’t I just go in this? What’s wrong with it?”

Sherlock rolled his head lazily over the backrest to appraise John. “Everything.”

John frowned. His clothing wasn’t that rubbish. He may not spend his yearly salary on everyday shirts and trousers but he thought he looked distinguished. Like a normal Beta doctor.

“Ta. Really appreciate that.”

“You asked.”

“Right.” John sighed. “What am I changing into, then?”

“Your suits came in.”

“We’re off to an A/O club?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright. Where are they?”

“My room. Along with the proper accessories.” Sherlock shifted, uncrossing his legs and throwing his arms out. Drama queen. “Scent me before you go.”

John’s world tilted on its axis. Just a little bit. He attempted to hide his surprise by clearing his throat. Generally, someone just didn’t ask their flatmate to scent them like they were asking for a cuppa. Especially, their Omega flatmate. Granted. That was probably a unique situation.

“Sorry, did you just say scent you?”

“Bravo.”

“Er. Why?”

“Why do you think?” Sherlock asked back, impatiently. “Think, John.”

“The case?”

“Oh, good. You can think. Knew I hadn’t misplaced all my trust.”

“Oy.”

“Just enough to imply I’m bonded. I had planned on using the synthesized scent. But as you know.”

“Can’t you go buy some off the internet?”

“I do believe that is out of budget.”

“Fine. Right.”

“Well, hurry up.”

“How about Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes,” Sherlock dragged out. “Cheery idea. Ask the post-menopausal Omega to somehow dredge up enough scent to make it seem like we’re bondmates.”

“Alright. That was a shite idea.”

“You’re stalling,” Sherlock said, finally focusing on him.

John shifted. “We don’t scent each other.”

“I scent you all the time. Not that it sticks with all your products. Really, John. This isn’t difficult,” Sherlocks said with exasperation seeping into his voice.

“It’s a bit different, isn’t it? What you’re asking.”

A quick drag of Sherlock’s wrist on John’s coat, a guiding touch at the small of his back, a brushing touch of hands—light scentings were normal. John hardly noticed them. Touching his neck was another matter. It was intimate, something reserved for lovers and close family members.

And very dear friends.

John closed his eyes.

During John’s panic attack Sherlock had let him do just that. With no hesitation or remorse or expectation that it be returned. Of course, Sherlock would see nothing wrong with asking for something he’d already thought was established between the two of them. Asking him to help John the next morning probably hadn’t helped matters either. And they had gotten off together.

Twice.

John had smothered Sherlock in his scent in the most intimate way possible. What Sherlock asked for paled in comparison, really.

“Thank you,” John said. “I never said. So, thank you.”

“Oh. The hallway. You’re welcome,” Sherlock said when he had puzzled it out. “This can’t be any different than scenting those boring Beta women you date. Easier, I would think. Just my torso and up would do. Thanks.”

John shifted.

Scenting, in theory, was easy. A natural everyday occurrence that John should participate in as an Omega. The problem was Betas didn’t. They didn’t rub themselves over random household furniture or drag items against their wrists. They didn’t reaffirm relationships by touching cheeks and inviting people to have a go at their neck. Maybe the odd case of returning a gesture from an Alpha colleague. But otherwise, nothing.

If John wanted to be perceived as a Beta, he had to act like one. No exceptions. Not that it mattered with Sherlock, who had guessed on day one what John was. The brilliant bastard. 

“I don’t. Scent them, that is.”

“Interesting. I’ve been reliably informed by countless therapists that failure to participate in casual scenting as an Alpha is a clear hallmark of sociopathy and an overall detriment to my continuing good health.”

“Heard that a lot did you.”

“Quite so.”

John rocked back and forth on his heels. “So. This is just for the case, then?”

“What else would it be for?”

Yes. What else could it possibly be for? Not for calming John down. Not for fucking on the floor. Not for marking him up.

“And how often will I be expected to do this?”

“Oh, how am I supposed to know? However often we need to put on this charade. If you want a number, I’d assume around three, potentially up to five. I doubt we’re going to be spending an excessive amount of time in A/O clubs, at least not without risking our cover.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Well?”

“I’ll do it.”

Surprised flicked over Sherlock’s face before disappearing. He grinned. “Knew you’d agree.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought I was going to say no.”

“Maybe.”

“Would you have listened, if I had said it?”

“Mycroft is only a phone call away. And I do understand,” Sherlock offered.

“Do you?”

“My childhood may have been vastly different in most aspects, but I expect in some, it was startlingly similar. I believe we both received unwanted attention when we allowed ourselves to scent after we hit puberty.”

“You?”

“I was told I smelled quite arresting.”

“Had all the posh kids at public school trying to get off with you?”

“Yes. It was utterly exhausting. Like you, I learned to abstain.”

John startled at that. Sherlock had never said. He’d just assumed it was something Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to.

“Of course, I noticed, John,” Sherlock said. “You scent nothing in the flat. At first, I thought it was jitters or being uncomfortable with our different genders, but you continued to and actively sought to eradicate your personal scent. I can hardly smell it most days. You wash your sheets every time you masturbate when you should be doing the opposite. You spray your dirty laundry every night before going to bed and you borrow Mrs. Hudson’s perfume to spritz your chair because it has strong floral notes that override your softer ones.”

“You noticed all of that,” John said with a slight disbelieving shake of his head. He had thought he had been subtle. “You’re brilliant.”

“Good of you to notice.”

“Right. Stand up,” John instructed. Sherlock eyed him. “I’m not doing it over the chair. Get over here.”

Sherlock came over.

“Shirt off too, I think,” John said.

Sherlock obeyed, pulling his shirt up over his head.

Right.

John steadied himself.

The last person John had chosen to scent had been Harry after one of her drunken binges over seven years ago. She had reeked of alcohol and bile and sat on the floor of her flat bawling her eyes out, while John had watched from the couch, visiting on leave. Clara had asked for some space, years before Harry’s drinking fully drove her away. He remembered sliding down next to her and very carefully pressing their cheeks together before Harry crushed him in a hug, shoving her head into his neck and breathing him in.

Steadily, John massaged the scent glands on his neck, digging his knuckles in. All the scraping on Sherlock’s chest had healed, along with the excessive amount of bruising John had left on his hips. John should have checked in with him the day after the fact. Made sure they healed cleanly.

The urge to reach out and redo them was starting to burn under his skin as he studied Sherlock. He wanted to mark Sherlock all up. Worse this time, make sure some of it scarred. No one would be able to touch him and not see. Territorial instincts. John wanted to laugh at himself. He might as well ask Sherlock if he could piss on him at this rate.

John guided Sherlock’s head down and started by coasting his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones. A rush of pleasure curled in his chest. It felt right to indulge. He moved up to Sherlock’s ears before going down Sherlock’s jaw, secretly marveling at how smooth he managed to keep his chin. John’s scruff always started to come in right away.

Rubbing his hands into Sherlock’s neck, he chanced a glance up. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his mouth partly open, his nose flaring every few moments. John licked his lips and kept going. He spent the most time on Sherlock’s scent glands, dragging his wrists back and forth, smearing his scent, and activating Sherlock’s.

The glands puffed out after a few minutes and Sherlock rumbled, low and warm when John pressed. The sound fell into John, making him catch his breath. Their scents folded together. A near-perfect harmony of the combination that normally haunted the flat.

John’s knees almost gave out.

There was so much more he wanted. The impulses were there, ready to push forward the moment he stopped paying attention. Completely inappropriate.

He needed to get a fucking grip.

He swallowed.

And moved on.

Thankfully, Sherlock’s chest proved to be the easiest part and gave John breathing room. He only had to skim over it, most of the work having been done at the neck. The last bit was the hardest.

He pulled Sherlock’s mouth down to his neck.

“Suck,” John instructed, thanking God his voice stayed firm.

Sherlock held for a moment. His breath flitted across John’s skin as his lips hovered just over the slightly engorged scent gland. With every second John felt his gland hotly pulse, craving any attention from Sherlock. John shivered. The want to grab the back of Sherlock’s neck and force him to bite down was strong. To finish what they started hardly two days ago.

That wouldn’t do either of them any good.

Finally, Sherlock closed the gap and spread his lips and sucked.

Arousal rolled through John. He flexed his hands against his sides, stuck his feet to the floor, and waited. Every suck and shift of Sherlock’s mouth was a beat of heat that picked up its own rhythm, tempting John to dance with it the more that played.

John’s pheromones fully filled the space, embedding itself in the very air. There was no denying who Sherlock belonged to now and it would stick for hours.

John barely managed to keep his protest to himself when Sherlock pulled away. Wasn’t he enjoying himself? John was such a good Omega. Alpha could have more if he wanted. 

Sherlock blinked several times. He closed his eyes and reopened them. HIs pajama bottoms really hid nothing. John spotted the half-stiffy starting to tent them. Good. They could both suffer through a stint of arousal in the taxi.

“I’ll just go get dressed,” John said.

“Please,” Sherlock rumbled.

The gray suit rested across Sherlock’s bed. A brand-new pair of leather oxfords, displayed in their box, were collected on the side with a pair of red silk socks and a matching set of pants along with a clean white button-up. On the pillows rested an open wooden box cradling an O-Lariat with yellow gems in starburst patterns.

Right.

John ran his hand through his hair and stripped. The pants gave him a bit of a pause as he picked them up. Sherlock had bought John pants. The process behind that was a bit hard to contemplate. John quickly flipped them around, checking to see if they were in Omega style, and breathed a huff of relief. They were a normal Beta pair. Most male Omega pants included a slit in the back for easy Alpha access.

Complete rubbish.

John dressed. He pointedly ignored how everything fit perfectly and that he was wearing an obscene amount of pounds. He flexed his toes in the shoes, listening to the creak of new leather and Sherlock joined him, already dressed, and completely put together.

John’s scent gland still pulsed under his shirt.

“Like it?” Sherlock asked.

“Um.” John glanced down at the clothes. “Nice socks,” John said with a quick grin. “Could use a green pair next time you go out.”

“Green is so last season,” Sherlock said. Sherlock walked to the top of the bed and picked up the O-lariat. “May I?”

“Alright.”

John ducked his head to make it easier. Useless, really. Sherlock had a good half a meter on him. The necklace fell, heavy on his shoulders. Sherlock ran his hand along the jewels, letting his fingers trail down John’s back till the pendant at the end. John kept himself still. The scenting was just for a case. Sherlock was not interested in John trying for more. Christ. John didn’t even know if he was interested in more. Even though it would be very easy. He could turn his head, nestle his cheek in Sherlock’s shoulders, breathe in their combined scents.

“How much is this one worth?” John asked, trying to distract himself.

Sherlock fussed with how the O-Lariat rested against John's suit. “It’s all yellow diamonds. Worth four to five thousand pounds a carat. I can’t remember the complete sum off the top of my head. You don’t plan on losing it, do you?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Sherlock directed John to spin around and John obliged. “I have good taste. You’ll do,” Sherlock said.

“High praise,” John responded.

Sherlock helped John into a new topcoat and donned one from his closet that John had never seen before. Sherlock glanced down at his watch. “I’ve ordered us separate taxis. It's imperative that you appear single to my bonded. That will allow us to peruse very different crowds. We’ll just be observing tonight, establishing a baseline to make further inquiries.”

“Right. Have you been before?”

“To an A/O club? Yes. At first, because it was expected but then, the rich do enjoy their habits.”

Habits. Cocaine.

“Is everyone going to be shooting up? I don’t want to spend my evening in a high-end drug den.”

“Most of it will be on milder substances. Alcohol, cannabis likely. Unless the demographics have drastically changed since my youth, the more intense substances will be in private reserved rooms.”

“Oh, that’s loads better.”

“Don’t worry. There will be other activities you enjoy.”

“Other activities?”

Sherlock grinned. “At least your porn habits suggest you’ll enjoy it. Our taxis are almost here, come along.”

“My porn habits. I thought I told you to leave off of that.” Sherlock ignored him and headed towards the stairs. John jogged to keep up. “Sherlock. That’s not funny.”

Sherlock’s grin only sharpened.

Smoky, green-tinted lighting hung from the ceiling in tiers, doubling as diffusers. A constant plume of steam cascaded downwards, covering any scent and lapping over John’s shoes as he curiously made his way inside. He paused, letting his eyes adjust from the bright of check in to the very low dim of the main floor.

Everything was a very dark green; the wallpaper, the furniture, the sparse decorations, and the floor. Not a single other color. John didn’t know what he expected from a place called the Green Torch, honestly. A fully circular bar gleamed in the center of the club with the backdrop of floor to ceiling mirrors.

Alphas draped themselves on chaise lounges and daybeds, letting the green lighting trace their figures. Most displayed their more singular attributes by forgoing articles of dress and using oil to give themselves a sheen. John strode by all of them, shaking off the stares that followed. He was not here for them.

The excessive gems on O-Lariats twinkled and glowed as Omegas moved throughout the club, grazing over the Alphas that flaunted themselves. John was suddenly very aware of what he was wearing.

Sherlock had picked out a light gray suit that stood out sharply in the dusk of the club and the yellow diamonds caught any stray gasp of light. Anyone who looked John’s way would see him and know exactly what he was.

John forced his shoulders back.

It was just clothing and it was for the case. He’d be able to go right home and change into normal trousers and normal jumpers and no one who looked at him would see anything other than Beta. He flexed his hands and kept on.

Most of the Omegas were clumped together in batches of three talking in hushed voices. The rest fluttered by the Alphas; sitting on their laps and smiling at them as they skimmed their fingers over muscle. The more involved activities were showcased by the excessive flare of neutralizer that continuously gushed out to cull the pheromones. In every instance there was a chaperone at their back, pointedly ignoring the proceedings.

John’s eyebrows climbed up his face. That is what Sherlock had meant and it also meant the bloody bastard had been through his porn recently. After the stint of the dildo on the chair he had gone on the hunt for a bit of chair sex. In another situation, John was enough of a man to admit he wouldn’t mind watching it in real-time. He couldn’t imagine it being comfortable though, with all the steam covering everything.

John spotted Sherlock. Still fully clothed. Thank, Christ.

Sherlock presented himself over a daybed, one leg stretched out and the other bent to touch the floor. He had made a giant arrow to his crotch. His head was propped up on his bent elbow and a slight smirk warmed his face. A group of Omegas crowded around him, vying for his attention. John let out a breath. Right.

“You’re new.”

John turned around. A young male Omega stood behind John, his fingers flicking and brown eyes blown wide.

“And you’re high,” John said blandly.

The Omega blinked at him before laughing. “Yeah, mate. Not much else to do.” He tapped the bonded pin on his suit. “Need help collecting someone?”

“I’m here to enjoy myself.”

The Omega scrunched his face. “But you’re old.”

John grinned. “You have shite pickup lines.”

The Omega laughed again, shifting through his moods. “If you’re into that. I got someone for you.”

Christ. This kid was a chaperone.

“Do you?”

The Omega wet his lips. “Yeah. She’s bored too. Interested?”

John shrugged. No. Not in an Omega half his age and probably just as high. But he was here to mingle. “Maybe.”

“Alright, mate. I’m Emir.”

“John.”

Emir laced his fingers with John’s. “Great. She’ll love you.”

God help him.

John barely survived the next few hours. Being old and not bonded was apparently the biggest source of gossip that had come around the club in months. John found himself paraded around like a prize horse for all the other Omegas to ogle at while Emir basked in the attention of having found something new and shiny.

And the Omegas liked to touch. More than any Alpha John had ever met. Nothing was off-limits. He’d had his scent glands prodded, his crotch grabbed and his arms squeezed when they realized he had muscles. He learned to breathe through his mouth after he near raged by catching too many scents clinging to his suit. The questions were even worse. They ranged from curious to completely insulting.

Out of all the Omegas he managed to meet, two were above twenty-five. The rest went from twenty to not legal and most of them were indulging, as Sherlock put it. No wonder George had enjoyed this place, just by showing up he’d get the attention he wanted from a bunch of high Omegas.

John was certainly getting too much attention and he had no illusions about his appearance. He was forty and looked it. The boyish charm that had clung throughout his life had started settling into deeper lines and his blond hair was disappearing into gray. He could only hope that the next few years would move him further into distinguished rather than old bastard. Not to say all the Alphas were all old bastards. John would guess at half being just as young.

The whiskey burned down John’s throat as a young Omega languidly stroked down Sherlock’s arm. The posh cunt was only wearing trousers and an O-Lariat that trailed down into his arse. The green lighting in the club tinted his skin as he leaned over Sherlock, putting their faces centimeters apart. He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock said something. The Omega’s pale fingers trailed down to Sherlock’s cuff and then dipped against his skin, rubbing their wrists together and mixing their scents.

John had another sip.

“Supposedly drinking is bad for reproductive health,” Ayla said.

John flicked his gaze away from Sherlock to Ayla who was sitting next to him, her chaperone right behind her. John didn’t remember his name.

Her scent enhancers leaked over and John felt his body automatically tense and his jaw clench. He tightened his grip on his drink to keep himself from triggering his own to challenge hers. A teenager was not his competition. He needed more whiskey. It was bloody exhausting, getting riled up at every stray Omega scent he came across. He was starting to wonder if neutralizers even worked.

John downed half of his drink. “Right shame, that.”

Ayla and her chaperone passed a joint between them. She offered it to John and he held back the urge to tell her to piss off. He had said something to the same effect earlier when she had propositioned him. She in turn had told him he was alright and bullied Emir to take his place.

John was a bit ashamed that for a brief moment he had considered Ayla’s offer. She was pretty with lovely tan skin and large black eyes and wore bright red lipstick. That always got him. He loved it when women went down on him wearing lipstick, seeing it being smudged off as they bobbed.

The dress she wore hardly helped matters. It was opaque and showed off her lack of undergarments. Her O-Lariat framed her breasts and made it hard not to look. Which was probably the entire point of it. He may have looked at her chest and then felt like a right old pervert. And then equally thankful that Sherlock hadn’t been tempted to put John in the male version of the dress. He could be sitting here in a translucent suit with gems framing his bits as he froze his arse off.

“You sure?” Ayla asked. She blew smoke in his direction.

If she had been older, he would have said yes. Having a rough shag in the dark outside of a pub was always exciting. He craved the moment when a woman trying to be silent gave in as he touched her just right. Or to see her knees get roughed up as she kneeled for him.

Would he ever be able to do that again? Would he be able to go into a local, pick up a Beta woman and fuck them in the alley with their dress bunched up around their hips and their underwear nudged aside with his cock. Right. He was absolutely a pervert.

The question stuck.

When his suppressors wore out, would he even be able to stand shagging a Beta? One of the few extensively observed things about Omegas was their sexual habits. John knew the score very well.

O/B couples were a rather new phenomenon, only truly developing in the modern era along with synthesized Alpha pheromones and suppressants. Betas’ inability to properly scent and produce pheromones during sex ended up with the Omega partner feeling neglected and unfulfilled and unable to reach sexual satisfaction. It led to the dissolution of the partnership in every case unless a third-party Alpha was brought in.

That’s why stud houses and clubs existed. Omegas were unable to get off with just anyone unless they pumped their system full of Beta hormones and suppressed their instincts as John had. And they couldn’t just go fuck an Alpha off the street. They needed someone safe.

Sherlock rumbled out a laugh and John’s attention went back across the room. It was a delighted laugh, one that meant an experiment or deduction turned out well. A pleased smile curled up the Omega’s face and in a smooth, single movement the Omega joined Sherlock on the daybed. He tucked himself coyishly at Sherlock’s knee. John didn’t know what Sherlock was playing for.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Ayla said.

“Sorry?” John asked.

“If you’re interested.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t shite me. You’ve been staring at him all night.” Ayla leaned her head back onto her chaperone’s shoulder and rubbed her cheek in, scenting him. He took the joint from her. “Know his name?”

“Checked in as Sherlock Holmes,” the chaperone said, checking his phone before taking a drag.

“New money, isn’t it?”

“Old money.”

“The suit looks like new money.”

“Name’s old money.”

“Even more reason to not worry,” Ayla assured John. “Oliver likes to get his cunt stuffed by any new Alpha but old money bores him. He’ll piss off to the next after a few fucks.”

“Ayla,” the chaperone scolded.

“What? It’s what he does, isn’t it?”

John cleared his throat. “Right.”

“I mean, really.” Ayla leaned closer to John. “He does the same tricks. Watch. Oliver’s going to put his hand on the knee and start going down the thigh and back up. He’ll do it for several minutes. He likes to see if he can get the Alpha to yank him down.”

“Right.”

Oliver put his hand on Sherlock’s knee and stroked down. His white nails flashed in the club and made it easy to follow as he teased down to Sherlock’s inner thigh and back up, ignoring the obvious outline further down.

John worked his jaw.

“Watch him a lot, do you?” John said after a moment.

“It’s how I met him. Watched him fuck my fiancé.”

“Er.”

Ayla pulled out a second joint and started tapping her pockets looking for another light. “Your face, mate. My contract is alright, though, isn’t it? If he does anything wrong, he’ll end up as shite.” A pleased smile curved Ayla’s mouth. “I did good.”

“Then how are there bonded Alphas here?”

“You sure you’re an Omega, mate?”

“Piss off.”

“Sorry, old man. Alright.” Ayla found her lighter and lit her joint. The smoke curled between them. “Some is to Betas, yeah? Others to Omegas who don’t give a bloody fuck and a few because the contract is utter shite. Like. Um. Like—”

“—Nate,” the chaperone filled in.

“Yeah. Nate. His parents didn’t give the arse end of a cunt. They just wanted as much money as they could squeeze him for. His Alpha always has room five booked. You can just show up and he’ll give you a go.”

Oliver moved onto Sherlock’s lap and leaned to press their cheeks together. Sherlock let him. Not my area, John’s arse. He waved the bartender over and held up his empty glass for another pour. If Sherlock was going to get a leg over and John had to talk to a teenage Omega, John could very well treat himself to a few more fingers of whiskey.

“It used to be more fun to watch when Henry was around.”

John helped himself to a few quick swallows before speaking again. “Henry?”

“They used to compete. Sometimes it came down to who could sit on a cock faster. They’d both wear Omega style trousers. Could just slip everything right in.”

John’s head jerked back to Sherlock. Sherlock had one hand resting on the small of Oliver’s back and the other still propping up his head. A larger sliver of Oliver’s arse peaked through his trousers as he leaned down to whisper into Sherlock’s ears, his hands doing something out of sight. Was Sherlock really getting pulled off in a club? John breathed.

Ayla stroked his arm, dropping her scent on him. “Alright there, old man?”

“I’m not old,” John snapped.

“In real life maybe. Here you’re almost in the crypt. Holmes is doing pretty good though. Still has his trousers on. Longest I’ve ever seen an Alpha last. Too bad Henry’s missing it. He’s fucked off this last month or something after his heat.”

That made John pause. That fit the timeline. First useful thing he had heard all night.

“Is that normal?” John asked.

Ayla shrugged. “If he bonded, it's alright. If not. Well, it happens, doesn’t it? All his parents have to do is say no. It’s hard to know, isn’t it?

Oliver played with Sherlock’s hair. His fingers tangled through Sherlock’s curls messing them up. John had never done that. He forced himself to pull his eyes away. It wasn’t any of his business if Sherlock wanted to get off in an A/O club.

“Sorry, do you have his parent’s number?” John asked.

The chaperone did and only handed it over after some persuading. John thanked the both of them, ordered another round of whiskey, drank it, and then said his goodbyes. Spending his night hunkered at a bar while Sherlock did whatever with the Omega was not his idea of a good time.

“Shall I call an Omega taxi, sir?” the door attendant asked as John collected his coat.

“Um. Yeah. Good. Thanks,” John said.

“Do you need someone to wait with you, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“Have a good evening, sir.”

The rain had let up.

The overcast skies and the endless lights of London held the night at gray as John stepped out. Sometimes, in the quieter suburban streets and the hidden in-between of modern buildings, the black was able to settle. Sherlock dragged them there to find criminals because that was where no one looked.

True black nights belonged in Afghanistan after the base had hummed down with the sun and when the heat began to be sucked out into the open sky. It had been the first time he’d ever looked up and seen an expanse that just stretched, with no buildings or trees to frame it, and stars that were almost white in brightness. Sometimes he missed it with a desperation that was blinding.

God, he was pissed off his arse.

He giggled at himself.

Who gave a bloody shite about the night sky?

The Omega taxi pulled up to the pavement. John stepped forward and handed his ID for scanning. The best thing about Omega taxis was they were fast. Five minutes fast. Often when Sherlock booked them a ride, they had to wait upwards of thirty minutes for one to bugger over.

John shoved his hands in his pockets and waited. The coat was nice, warm. Probably some fancy expensive blend of fabrics from some equally expensive brand. The ID was handed back and John gave his address before slipping into the cab.

Sherlock caught the door as John tried to close it and slid in behind him.

“Got your text,” Sherlock said.

“That was fast,” John said. “I thought you’d take longer.”

Sherlock pulled his gloves on. “Hardly. No reason to hang around if you found us a lead.”

“No reason?”

Did Sherlock get off while John was trying to wheedle the phone number? He wouldn’t have missed it. Had he, though? It’s not like Sherlock had been loud the few times they had gotten off together. He peaked at Sherlock’s crotch. The Belstaff hid it.

Okay.

Fine.

He leaned back into the seat and stared out the window. He breathed in deeply, trying to sneak a sniff at Sherlock. Nothing. Not even a hint of arousal. Just the bland scent of an Omega taxi.

“They have a spray room,” Sherlock informed him, catching him out. “Surprisingly efficient.”

“That’s good.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you enjoy it then?”

“Enjoy what?”

So many things. The posh boy. The posh Omega boy. The posh Omega boy touching him. The posh Omega boy scenting him, smearing his barely developed stench all over Sherlock’s tightly tailored clothes. The posh Omega boy touching Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. Getting Sherlock off in a room full of people with his posh Omega boy arse bared to the room.

John cleared his throat.

“The club?”

“Does it matter?”

“Seemed like you had a good time.”

“Did I?”

Questions stuck to John’s tongue and clogged his throat. He dug his phone out instead. “Henry Talbot. Used to be a regular. Left for his heat and hasn’t shown up since.”

“Good work,” Sherlock said. “We have somewhere to start.”

The words curled into pleasure. John chanced a look. Sherlock appeared remarkably put together. He had opened his coat in the heat of the taxi. His trousers were still on with no sign of a wet spot and his shirt was nicely tucked in. A slight bulge remained and his hair was a riot.

John licked his lips.

Alright, then.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for how long this chapter took to put out.
> 
> I had a comedy of errors in real life involving government paperwork and a car that's hardly been driven in the past year due to lockdown. Both of these issues, no joke, took up about a week's worth of time and an excessive amount of time being put on hold. I am so sorry. When I had originally started posting I wanted to hit a 4/5 day updating schedule. Looks like I'm at 4/6 for hitting that mark. Fingers crossed that this last week was all the bad things that will happen for the next few months and I can continue as planned. Again, I'm so sorry. As a reader, I know how frustrating it can be when an author fails to update. 
> 
> Also, there must be a funky paragraph somewhere, word kept making it disappear because it was between pages so I put two paragraphs together but after reading through it twice I could not find it for the life of me. Please let me know if you spot something funny!
> 
> As before, no beta. All the mistakes belong to me. [Though! I have found one who is currently going over past chapters to nitpick!]

Officially, Henry Talbot died due to heat complications on the 8th of April at two pm, the location was redacted. John turned back to the front of the autopsy report with mounting disbelief. The report started out routine, recording Henry’s height, age, and position on death. Then it continued as if it had been perfectly normal for Henry to die at nineteen with no prior health issues. There were no noted anomalies, all physical attributes were marked as unremarkable and the gross description section was textbook.

Complete and utter bollocks.

Sherlock set down a cup of coffee and gave John’s elbow a cursory touch that shifted to a quick scenting. It was the third that morning. John licked his lips. It was normal Alpha behavior. He shouldn’t be noticing it. He picked up the coffee and stopped before drinking.

“No drugs?” John asked.

“That was one time, and it was just sugar,” Sherlock said, brushing off John’s concern.

“You thought it was drugs.”

“I already apologized.”

“And what merits the second time you’ve ever made me coffee?”

“Just drink it.”

“Load of confidence, that is.” John picked up the coffee and hesitantly drank. It was bitter and sharp. Sherlock had remembered that John didn’t take sugar. “Ta,” John said.

Sherlock sat down and John breathed in. A fresh drift of strong, heady Alpha curled into the kitchen. Sherlock probably hadn’t slept at all to smell like that. John’s body turned and he breathed in again. He caught himself before he managed a third. He used to hardly register how Sherlock smelled.

Sherlock cricked his neck and stretched, pulling his shirt taut over his chest. The top few buttons were still undone and his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. John regarded the autopsy again.

“What do you make of it?” Sherlock asked.

“Didn’t you already go through this?”

“You’re the doctor. I’d like your opinion.”

“Alright. Well, it's fake.”

“Go on.”

“If he honestly died of heat complications, which does happen, there should be remarks somewhere about it. An over producing slick gland maybe or a O-gland not releasing properly.”

Sherlock drank his coffee and made a slightly disgusted face. John pushed the sugar dish over to him. Sherlock dropped two sugars in and stirred.

“There’s nothing here,” John started up again, “not a single bloody note. Everything is unremarkable. Heat complications, really.” Irritated, John dropped the autopsy on the table. “It’s either faked or forged or done by a student about to flunk an exam.”

Sherlock quirked a smile. “Yes. Molly would be aghast.”

“The doctor’s signature is a squiggle.”

“Oh, that doesn’t prove anything. All doctors’ signatures are rubbish.”

“I’ve worked hard on mine. You can read it.”

“The exception. What else?”

“There’s no other names. Who identified the body, who was first on the scene? It’s a complete joke.”

“Yes. No names besides the deceased.”

“Where do we even start with that?”

“The question we always start with, John—why? Why would an Omega have a fake autopsy report? Or the better question is why did they think they could get away with such an abysmal attempt.”

“You can’t access Omega records. At least not normally. Lestrade was denied and he’s trying to solve a murder. You had to ask Mycroft.”

“Almost there.”

“If you have this all figured out why am I doing this?”

“You won’t improve if I do all the work. Keep going.”

“Sherlock, I’m not sure.”

Sherlock sighed. “Think. Who has access to the autopsies?”

“Really?”

“Give it a go.”

“Okay. Fine. Right.” If John suddenly keeled over and died only two people would be able to request his medical records. Harry if she managed to show up sober and Dr. Jones, as his attending physician. Mycroft would probably pull them for Sherlock, regardless. “Family and the attending physician. You think one of them did it?”

“I think they’re both complicit, along with the Alpha who shared his heat.” Sherlock tapped one of his beakers on the table. “Think about it. George, while worried about his reputation, thought to call 999, alerting the authorities. Why? Because his Omega didn’t care what George was doing. Granted, his Omega might divorce him on the grounds of scandal. Useless. Ignore that. George is unimportant.

What’s important is Henry’s Alpha didn’t. What does that mean? Potentially he’s unbonded. If word got out that an Omega died during their heat while being attended to by an Alpha, that Alpha wouldn’t be let near another Omega. Unlikely, given our other two Alphas were bonded. So. Who does an Alpha call to deal with a dead Omega? He could certainly afford to find the right people to help hide the body. I paid £100,000 for one evening at the club—"

“Wait, £100,000?” John asked. “You were able to pay for that?”

“Why would I pay?”

“Someone had to.”

“Mycroft.”

“Does he know he’s been footing the bill for all of this?”

“Do you think the British government can afford a scandal of someone going around and killing their precious Omegas?”

“Right. He knows, then?”

“Of course not. That’s what he’ll say when someone points out the expenditures.”

“Alright.” John let out a low whistle. “£100,000. Christ.”

“Did you think they just let any Alpha in?”

“Well. No. But that’s.”

“Omegas have a value on them inferred by what people are willing to pay. That number happens to be quite high.”

“Alright. So the Alpha is rich. Any Alpha that shares an Omega’s heat is. How does that help us?”

“They have money to burn. They can call for help to cover the entire thing up— but then it gets complicated, what happens when the family comes looking? It would still ruin him. The easier option would be that Henry’s parents have just as much to lose as the Alpha from the death becoming public knowledge.”

“Like Katie’s family.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think it was Henry’s family or the Alpha that suggested the autopsy switch?”

Sherlock stood. “I don’t know. Our first query becomes how Henry died. Go change into the gray suit. An older Omega chaperone checking in on a once charge isn’t too uncommon. Mummy certainly entertained her fair share.”

“When would I have had the chance to be his chaperone?”

“They let you in without one last night. Henry was young. The chances of him bumming off to a club without his assigned chaperone is high. The club assigned you to him when he showed up and you are concerned that you haven’t seen him in over a month.”

“Alright.” John finished his coffee and pushed in his chair. “Wasn’t the blue one brought over?”

“Navy,” Sherlock corrected.

“What’s the difference? No, don’t answer that. I don’t know why I asked. Is the navy one here?”

“Yes, but the gray will do just fine.”

John gathered Sherlock’s cup. “I’d rather the blue one.”

“You do realize most Omegas have a wardrobe that cycles out monthly?”

“Why would I know that?”

Sherlock shook his hands through his hair. “I should have ordered more. I wasn’t anticipating this case being more than a few days. I wonder if they can fill something short notice.”

“Isn’t three enough?”

Sherlock shot John an exasperated look. “Do you think it’s enough?”

John shrugged and dumped the cups in the sink. Mrs. Hudson would wash them. “Okay. Right. The gray one might not be ready.”

It was strung up in John’s room drying. He had stumbled up the stairs last night, pulled it off, and dumped it right on top of a diffuser, trusting the neutralizer to work. It hadn’t, not really. The scents of other Omegas had woken him every time he managed to fall asleep. He would jerk awake, enraged that another Omega had entered his nest.

When he had sobered enough to connect the dots, he had grabbed everything and shoved it in the tub along with the strongest medical-grade neutralizer he owned and left it to soak. He had passed out the second he touched his sheets and only remembered about it when he had gone to take a piss in the morning. It was still rather damp.

“How did you manage to ruin a suit in one evening?” Sherlock demanded. “We were hardly there for more than three hours.”

“I didn’t ruin it, it’s just drying.”

“What, you decided to give it a wash? You can’t be that much of an idiot.”

John grimaced. “No, I’m not. I used the tub.”

“Yes. Much better.”

“It smelled, alright?”

Sherlock squinted slightly at him, trying to puzzle it out. He made a satisfied noise after a few seconds. “You don’t like other Omega’s touching you.”

“Pick up on that, did you?”

“A natural response. You’re unbonded and older. Younger Omegas would be seen as a threat against your instinctual urge to find a bondmate.”

“Most of them were wearing scent enhancers.”

“Of course, they were. How else would an Alpha scent them through all the neutralizers?”

John glanced down at his feet, rocking back on his heels. “Does that happen to you? With other Alphas?”

“Do you try to be unobservant?”

John had never bothered to pay attention; it had seemed like a waste of time when he was on suppressants. He could hardly smell anyone’s scent, much less tell when they left it on something. Embarrassing, really. Unless it was completely overpowering and it smacked him in the face.

“Right. Sorry. I just never did before,” John said.

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Sherlock stared right at him.

“Okay. So, does it?”

“Touching me, no.”

“Alright.” John rocked again. “The flat bothers you though. When Alphas touch things in the flat. You go around after they leave and spray your scent.”

“I live here.” Sherlock continued to stare at John. “Do you want to spray your scent?”

John’s own room smelled like chemicals and Beta cologne. He never dared to let it smell like anything else. It didn’t matter that it was considered detrimental to his mental health.

And it had been years.

Bloody decades, since he had lived in a space that smelled like him. He didn’t know what that would do to him now if the flat smelled like Sherlock and him together. Like bondmates. He was already struggling to parse out his elevated reactions to Sherlock that had revved up exponentially in the last week.

“Uh, no. I’m good. That’s, yeah. The blue suit?”

Sherlock nodded towards his room. “Follow me.”

The blue suit was exactly the same as the gray one. John barely managed it on before Sherlock kicked him out to change. John grabbed the tablet and settled down to read. He paused midway through turning it on and texted Finn a thank you.

“Pins or clips,” Sherlock asked, striding out of his room, and carrying three boxes.

“Sorry, what?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored the question and frowned. “You have a tablet.”

“Yeah. It’s a bit easier than bothering with books.”

“You didn’t buy it for yourself. A gift?”

An impressed smile curved John’s lips. The deductions always got him, even the easy ones. He set the tablet aside. “How long did that take you, ten seconds?”

“Less.”

“Show off. What are the pins and clips for?”

Sherlock eyed the tablet for a second longer before opening the smallest box and shoving it in John’s face. “Pick.”

The box held a double set of pins and clips encrusted in diamonds.

“Am I supposed to wear those?”

“Oh, never mind.” Sherlock put the box down and grabbed John’s arm.

“What’re you—”

“—Hold still, John.”

Sherlock folded up John’s sleeves with short precise movements, stopping halfway up his forearm and exposing both of his scent glands. Sherlock selected two of the clips and secured each sleeve in place before doing the same with his own.

“Why are we wearing these now?”

“You need to read up on Omega fashion.”

“That sounds like a laugh.” Sherlock caught John’s hand. “Er.”

“I’m demonstrating,” Sherlock said.

He wove their fingers together and pulled John closer and it was suddenly very clear. Their scent glands pressed together with both of their shirts rolled up and every little shift encouraged their scents to mix. It was very distracting. John licked his lips, Sherlock seemed unphased. 

“Apparently,” Sherlock drolled. “This is the latest fad in bonded male fashion.”

“Are we going to be doing this the entire time?”

Sherlock looked momentarily unsure. “I thought you’d prefer this over another scenting.

John should prefer it. He really should.

“Um. Right. Yeah.”

“The NHS stated in one of their more recent studies that multiple scentings between an unmated pair in a close time frame could encourage prebonding pheromones. Seeing as we’re both adjusting to your new hormone levels with rather volatile—”

“You?”

“—reactions it seemed best to temper it where we could.”

“You’re having volatile reactions?”

“Despite my excellent control, I can assure you I am an Alpha.” Sherlock regarded their hands. He breathed in deeply, his eyes fluttering closed. John swallowed and Sherlock inhaled again. “I have found myself ill-equipped to deal with my instinctual reactions.”

That told John very little. Instinctual reactions could mean anything from being more territorial to wanting to throw John against the wall and fuck him.

“Right, okay. That’s fine.”

“Of course it is. As you said, it's all fine,” Sherlock rumbled, his eyes opening. He let go of John. “Now, which do you want on first, the bonding pin or the O-Lariat?”

“More?” John took in the two boxes and groaned. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock selected another box and pulled out a large bonding pin. John held still as Sherlock finished, his hands lingering on the small of John’s back again with another quick scenting. John pretended to not notice and they left with John wearing more jewelry than he ever had in his lifetime.

The bus ride from Chelmsford to London was just over an hour. John had spent several teenage years crammed in a seat with Harry next to him and Hamish sitting across, beer in hand. The three of them rode the bus into London and transferred to a second bus that carried them to Knightsbridge where Hamish would order John and Harry off.

Hamish had always roughly grabbed John by the shoulders, his hands pressing against John’s scent gland and demanding obedience in an Alpha strong grip. He liked to drag John up and down the street, pointing out the houses and cars. If Harry didn’t follow, he’d grab her too, yank her around by her arms. Sometimes, it was worse; after John had rejected several Alphas in a row. Hamish would grab John by the jaw and force his head to turn and bury him in angry pheromones that made him cower.

“Look, Johnny,” Hamish had demanded. “We could be living here. Don’t you want to live here?”

John never said anything back.

At thirteen, then fourteen, and the first months into fifteen there was little John could do against a grown Alpha who wanted to manhandle him. All Hamish had to do was grab John’s shoulder or let out an excessive amount of pheromones that would freeze him from the inside out. He’d be paralyzed for whatever Hamish wanted to do with him.

Had been paralyzed.

There was a reason Omegas had chaperones that were either bonded Omegas or Betas. Not that it would have made a difference. Hamish, as John’s family Alpha, had the right. For John’s safety, according to parliament. Hamish never hit, but he dragged and pulled and demanded and threatened and on bus days John always just stood on the pavement, Harry next to him, and stared at rows of white terraced flats.

He promised himself he’d never go back there.

Today was just his luck.

Henry Talbot’s parents lived in a white terraced house in Knightsbridge. Of course, they did. He should have figured. It was the most expensive neighborhood in London. Where else would Omegas live? They certainly weren’t popping around London’s east end.

“John?” Sherlock asked stopping short as John failed to budge from the spot the taxi had dropped them off on. “Alright?”

John flexed his fingers under Sherlock’s grip. They had spent the entire ride over holding hands, their wrists bumping together and teasing the space between them with potential. John had been rather thankful to be out until he realized where they were.

John cleared his throat. “Yeah,” John said, stepping forward. “Sorry.”

“Remember everything?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock led them up the small set of stairs and rang the doorbell before tucking John against his side. He let go of John’s hand and slid his own beneath John’s jacket, splaying his fingers just under John’s ribs. Sherlock played with the fabric of John’s shirt as they waited, stroking in a gesture John often watched Sherlock apply to his violin.

“Good. Oh. And it's just going to be Holmes today. Apologies. I know we had agreed on Watson-Holmes but it does make people ask questions,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

The door opened.

An Alpha around John’s age greeted them in a prim red dress. “How can I help you?” She asked.

“Good morning!” Sherlock said too cheerfully and too forcefully, a bright smile splitting open his face. John almost laughed. Sherlock held his free hand out for a handshake.“Mrs. Talbot, I presume?”

Mrs. Talbot blinked slowly at him. She gripped his hand formally and greeted him as another Alpha. “Yes.”

Sherlock's smile grew wider. “Oh, good! Sometimes finding addresses can be such a fuss. I’m Mr. Holmes and this is.” Sherlock squeezed John and tugged him into view. “This is my Omega, Mr. Holmes.”

“Um. Yes. Hello,” John said, trying to match Sherlock’s tone.

“Hello.” Mrs. Talbot looked between the two of them. “Sorry, but can I help you with something?”

“Uh,” John started.

“My Omega wanted to ask after Henry, he hadn’t heard anything in a bit and said he wanted to pop on by,” Sherlock smoothed over. “You don’t mind of course? You know how Omegas get. They can be so fixated on something they want. I’ve always found it best to indulge him.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Talbot said.

“May we speak to Henry?” Sherlock pushed.

“If the two of you would like to come in? It's something that is best discussed inside.”

“Thank you for accommodating us.”

“It's no trouble,” Mrs. Talbot said, implying that it was anything but. “I am happy to meet friends of Henry’s.”

The flat smelled odd like John had taken a gander through a Beta perfume department. Too many artificial scents. He sneezed several times before giving in and digging out several extra nasal strips. Sherlock snagged one for himself. John snorted as Sherlock struggled to get it up his nose.

“It’s Mr. Talbot's new hobby,” Mrs. Talbot said unapologetically.

“Is it just the two of you, at the moment?” Sherlock asked.

“We’re having a bit of a lie-in the last few days.”

“Must be cozy, having the staff off on holiday.” Sherlock ran his free hand over the top of a decorative vase and showed off the dust that covered his fingers. He flicked it off. “What company are you using? Perhaps I can recommend a more attentive one, especially if you are going to continue with little lie-ins. Or I’ve always been partial to a live-in housekeeper.”

“Mr. Talbot prefers his privacy.” Mrs. Talbot sat them down in the sitting room. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely, a bit chilly today, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.

“Not odd weather for May.”

Sherlock’s fingers tapped over John’s ribs. “We’d been hoping to take a short holiday to the Maldives but I’m afraid business is keeping us for a few more weeks.”

“I’d rather Hawaii,” John chipped in.

“Would you?”

“I’ll be back with tea,” Mrs. Talbot said and left them alone.

“Hawaii over the Maldives?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t even know where the Maldives are,” John admitted.

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. The most exciting holidays I’ve been on was to New Zealand and that was a bit rubbish because Sarah broke up with me.”

“Yes, you did say so on your blog. Hawaii has better hiking.”

“You’ve been?”

“No. Mycroft spent the entirety of a Boxing Day complaining how Hawaii was the worst island holiday possible because the group he’d went with wanted to spend it hiking rather than eating and laying on the beach.”

“Ah.” John looked around, making sure Mrs. Talbot hadn’t snuck back in. “You think they’re hard up for money?”

“I think they’re desperate for it,” Sherlock confirmed. “Beta perfume over neutralizer and no staff or even a cleaning service. Having an Omega comes with an expected lifestyle upkeep that Mrs. Talbot isn’t providing.”

John snorted. “Good thing I like takeaway and Mrs. Hudson does all our cleaning.”

“Yes. Though you could start allowing me to put heads in the fridge again.”

“No.”

“The question is,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes scanning the room. “Why isn’t the Alpha paying them off? An average contract in the UK starts at £100,000,000, that’s the least the Talbots could expect from the death of their son.”

“Something illegal?” John hazard.

“Very. I don’t think Mr. Talbot would be here otherwise.”

“Any idea?”

“A few.”

Mrs. Talbot returned with an Omega man at her back. The Omega, Mr. Talbot John assumed, carried the tea tray in slightly shaky hands. The top of the pot rattled until he set it down on the coffee table.

“What a treat,” Sherlock gushed. “Normally people just have the help fetching it. I can never get my Omega to lift a finger while at home.”

Mr. Talbot tightly smiled. Stiffly, he sat down across from them. His O-Lariat was a very simple style, a long cord of silver with one pearl at the center of his neck. John frowned; he’d never seen one that plain before. Mr. Talbot caught John eying him and one of his hands fluttered to his neck, hiding the pearl.

“It’s an heirloom,” Mr. Talbot said defensively.

“I think that’s fantastic that you want to pay homage,” Sherlock said. He gave John a friendly nudge with his shoulder. “Mine won’t touch anything worth at least half a million.”

Mrs. Talbot poured out the cups of tea.

“I’m worth it,” John said. He heard that in a movie once. Seemed good use of it here.

Sherlock smiled softly and pulled John in for a quick kiss on his forehead. “Of course, you are. You’re my Omega. Anything less wouldn’t suit.”

A blush stole up John’s cheeks. Christ. All the touching was getting to him.

“Still fond of last year's styles?” Sherlock asked towards Mr. Talbot.

Mr. Talbot demurred. “Sometimes pieces are just hard to purge at the end of a season.”

“I’m still partial to 2007’s fall season, I may have hidden a few pieces away.”

“Like you need any more suits,” John said.

Sherlock turned his smile back on John. “I need to match you, don’t I?”

Mrs. Talbot pushed the tea towards them on the table and joined Mr. Talbot. She crossed her legs and stared, back completely straight.

“You wanted to know after Henry.” Mrs. Talbot said.

“Go on, mine,” Sherlock murmured encouragingly to John.

This entire thing was ridiculous.

“Right. Sorry. I was just worried, that’s all.” John looked down at his hands, trying to be bashful. “I know it’s expected but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to stop by and have a quick chat, just to catch up. Is he due home soon?”

Mrs. Talbot cleared her throat and fussed with her teacup. “I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes, that Henry had an unfortunate heat and won’t be returning to us.”

Sherlock made a shocked sound. He was hamming it up. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Heat complications.”

“Even with an attending Alpha?” John asked.

Mrs. Talbot nodded and Mr. Talbot looked away.

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said again, sounding utterly horrified. “I can’t imagine. That’s always my worst fear as mine gets up in age.”

Dick.

“That’s horrible.” John clutched at Sherlock’s thigh like some of his dates had during horror movies. “I can’t believe I’ve heard nothing about it!”

“We’re preferring to keep it quiet,” Mrs. Talbot said. “We do not want our son’s death in the news.”

“Of course,” Sherlock soothed. “Having any sort of attention must be traumatizing. Do you have the Alphas name? I’m sure mine would feel much more comfortable warning his future charges to stay away.”

“We’ve already settled it, I’m afraid.”

“Surely you can give a name?”

“No, it was in the contract.”

Sherlock dropped his persona with hardly more than a blink. “Contract is it. Not settlement?”

Mr. Talbot jerked his attention back to the conversation. He looked at Mrs. Talbot with wide eyes. “Viv,” he rushed out.

“Of course, it was a settlement,” Mrs. Talbot said. 

“No. It was a contract. A settlement would have at least secured your household for several years and Mr. Talbot wouldn’t be wearing fake pearls. How much?” Sherlock asked.

“Viv,” Mr. Talbot urged.

Mrs. Talbot squared her shoulders. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

A sharp grin lit up Sherlock’s face. “No, I think not. Tell me, how much does an unbonded Omega’s heat sell for?”

Sharply, John regarded Sherlock.

“You insult me and mine,” Mrs. Talbot rumbled.

“You must have been selling it for several years for it to be worth it over a contract. How young did you start? Fifteen is the average age for an Omega’s first heat. I bet you got the best offers when he was young and ripe and hadn’t been fucked on a knot before,” Sherlock said, pressing forward.

John focused on Mr. Talbot who was taking in the entire conversation with wide eyes. His hands tightly gripped his O-Lariat and over the fake perfume, John smelled fear. Not surprise or anger, fear.

“You sold your son’s heat?” John breathed out.

Mr. Talbot said nothing to John’s question. John couldn’t believe it. These two were no better than Hamish. He wondered if they paraded Alphas around Henry like Hamish had. He always brought Alphas to the kitchen first and he’d set them up with a cheap beer and then start on business like they were talking about the weather. John had always listened from his bed, his knees drawn to his chest and realizing quite numbly what would happen the moment his body stopped rearranging itself.

Mrs. Talbot was up and advancing towards Sherlock. John lunged up and moved in front, his hands clenching and releasing, ready to lash out. Mrs. Talbot stopped short, her face darkening in fury. God, he wanted to hit her. Lay her flat out on her back, listen to her lungs struggle as the air was knocked right out. He’d never been able to do that to Hamish.

Mrs. Talbot worked her jaw, color flooding down her neck. “You need to teach your Omega to behave, Mr. Holmes.”

“Behave, Johnny,” had been Hamish’s favorite words, and “Don’t you want nice things, Johnny?”

“Is that what you told Henry when you sold him?” John demanded. 

Mrs. Talbot growled, low and infuriated. John’s entire body flinched into alertness, his heart quickening. Sherlock pressed into his back, steadying him, and bleeding out Alpha pheromones that pushed against Mrs. Talbot’s infuriated ones.

“Did Henry have a choice?” John asked sharply.

“Would it be so bad,” Harry had asked once, as they looked over another Alpha Hamish had brought home. “It’s not like you won’t enjoy it. It’d get us out of this bloody shite hole, Johnny.” John hadn’t answered and Harry had never apologized.

Had they said that to Henry? That he’d enjoy it, so why not? Sometimes John wondered if his mum had asked over Hamish, would he have said yes?

“This is family business,” Mrs. Talbot said.

John shook his head, several times. “No. You’ve got to be joking. Your son is dead, hm? He died while he was in heat, completely vulnerable and dependent on other people to keep him safe. That is not business. Your son is not business.”

John was not business.

Mrs. Talbot's nostrils flared and she rocked forward before pulling herself back.

“It was your job, as his parents, hm? To keep him safe. You failed. You’re still failing. You could pin the Alpha right now. And you’re too much of a coward.”

Mr. Talbot stopped Mrs. Talbot from lunging at him. Mr. Talbot curled his hand or Mrs. Talbot's neck, pressing into her scent gland.

“It’s okay Val,” he said softly. He addressed John and Sherlock without looking at them. “You have no proof. I’ve called the police. You will be arrested if you’re still here for causing an Omega due distress in their territory. I’d suggest you leave.”

John didn’t think he could. He needed them to see.

Sherlock caught John’s hand, undoing his clenched fist. He wove their fingers together and gently let their scent glands brush. John hated how calming it was.

“We have what we came for, John,” Sherlock said into his ear.

Right. The case.

The fact that Henry’s parents were illegally selling his underage heats was not the reason they were there. Not that Alphas would have cared. They wanted to participate.

John breathed and yanked himself away, one step at a time, Sherlock at his back.

They ended up at a private park. John halted on the grass. Sherlock waited next to him, still holding his hand like he was a wayward child.

“Sorry,” John said. “I’ve bollocksed it.”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said.

“Right.”

John wiped at his mouth with a shaking hand and tried to breathe. The diamonds on the O-Lariat shone in the pale afternoon and John stopped himself from tugging it off. Grown men did not throw millions worth of diamonds in the dirt. Even if he desperately wanted to.

His entire worth for the case up until now had solely revolved around the simple fact that he was an Omega. Not John. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor, and that he’d served in the RAMC and that he could keep up with Sherlock Holmes. Twenty-five years and he was thirteen again, his entire worth being rewritten by his arse. Like it was the only thing John was good for.

Be good, Johnny.

Part of John had wanted to be good. He had. He wanted his pack Alphas to be proud of him. For the Alphas who showed up trying to scent him to care about him. It would have been nice to be a good Omega.

Fucking rubbish.

The grass compacted under John’s weight. He watched the blades push up as he stepped back. Sherlock’s grip tightened.

Hamish had died when John was on his first tour. Harry had sent a postcard saying he was up for cremation and that had been that.

John’s face was hot.

Shite.

He brought his free hand to cover his face and rocked himself.

This entire week had been too fucking much.

Sherlock rumbled softly; a sympathetic noise meant to soothe John’s distress. John didn’t know what to make of it. He doubted Sherlock was actively choosing to pull on Alpha impulses. That was his fault too.

John’s face grew hotter and his breathing stuttered.

Sherlock folded around him, the Belstaff brushing against his shoulders as Sherlock slowly ran his hand along John’s back up to his neck. He held it there, brushing his thumb against John’s soft baby hairs. Sherlock bent down slightly, letting his curls dust against John’s cheeks, and nudged John towards Sherlock’s scent gland.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said.

John could barely focus past the shame and frustration and flood of Omega wants crowding out his thoughts. The craving to lean into Sherlock was consuming. He wanted to rub Sherlock’s scent all over, to bask in it like the first break of sun after weeks of rain and he wanted—he wanted Sherlock to touch him back, to mix their scents like John was his. An Omega instinct as sure as his beating heart

Sherlock just held him, didn’t move, didn’t force John’s head closer by the last few centimeters separating them. He rested his head atop of John’s, not caring that his shirt was soaked from John’s wet gasps and the drips that escaped John’s trembling hand.

“It's alright,” Sherlock repeated.

John had wasted years wanting to trust.

Hamish who had still shown up to rugby matches and bought icelollys in the summer even if he was pissed off his arse and taking Alpha’s bids for John’s heats. Harry who had stayed constant for a few years until drinking became more important than ‘Johnny’s cunt’ problem. Alpha’s who he thought enjoyed John turning into Alphas who just wanted to fuck an Omega and get their sodding knot off.

Sherlock had been the first Alpha that looked at him and saw everything and continued to be a massive dick anyway. Not once had he altered his deductions or his habits or his brilliance because John was an Omega. Not once. The Alpha rumbling might have been spurred on by John leaking Omega pheromones but this hug, this hesitant and firm touch was all Sherlock. John let himself be held until he could blink clearly. He pulled away and resolutely met Sherlock’s startlingly concerned gaze. John glanced down and then forced himself to look back up.

“I’ve never had.” John stopped and moved his jaw, trying to work his voice steady. “There’s never been.” He cleared his throat. He let out a deep breath. “Thank you.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Thank you.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand back. “Of course.”

There was an Omega in the flat. John stopped on the threshold, his nostrils flaring. Oliver from the A/O club sat primly on the couch fully decked out in jewelry and his coat neatly folded over his lap. A completely different presentation than the other night. An Omega chaperone with an excessively large bonding pin perched next to him and sipped on tea as Mrs. Hudson doled out biscuits. The dim sum hit against John’s leg. They should have eaten at the restaurant

“Interesting,” Sherlock said and swept into the room.

Was it.

“Boys! You’re back,” Mrs. Hudson greeted.

Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a quick kiss on the cheek and stopped before their guests. His eyes bounced between the two of them. He pulled off the Belstaff and draped it over the sitting room table.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock rumbled.

“I’ll just fetch some more tea,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“Good afternoon,” Oliver said.

Sherlock pulled one of the chairs out from the table and sat in it with an unnecessary flourish. Oliver reached out and smoothed a hand down the Belstaff, a smile quirking.

“Your coat is rather distinctive Mr. Holmes,” Oliver said.

Mrs. Hudson touched John’s elbow. “John, dear, will you help me carry up a round of tea?”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked.

“It helps you cut quite a figure,” Oliver elaborated.

“That is rather the point.”

“I think I’d rather—,” John started.

“—It's just my hips been acting up,” Mrs. Hudson spoke over him. “We can put the takeaway in my fridge. Don’t want to be scaring off potential clients again with whatever Sherlock has on the middle shelf.”

The middle shelf was currently hosting a string of airdrying tongues. It had been there for almost a month. Oliver had pulled the Belstaff off the table and was examining it, turning it over in his hands and Sherlock watched, completely unphased.

“Alright. Fine,” John bit out.

“There’s a good lad.” Mrs. Hudson gave him a pat and headed downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson carefully put the takeaway in her fridge and faffed around the kettle and ordered John to take a seat at her kitchen table.

“I have chocolate digestives and custard creams and hobnobs, but they might just be a little dodgy,” Mrs. Hudson started.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John tried.

“I think I opened them when I bought them and decided I just didn’t like them as much as I remembered. You know how it goes. Somethings only taste good in memory.”

“Mrs. Hudson. Why am I here?”

“Just waiting for the kettle to boil dear.”

John sighed. “They can’t hear us, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, you never know. Omegas have frightfully good senses and Sherlock always manages, doesn’t he?”

“Okay.”

John leaned back in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d rather be upstairs.

“Which biscuit dear?”

“Custard creams.”

Mrs. Hudson set some out on a plate for him. He ate one. Then a second. He was really quite hungry. And a third and at the fourth, the kettle started to boil, the water rumbling.

“I didn’t know what to do, John!” Mrs. Hudson said urgently. “An unbonded Omega just showed up at the door. I couldn’t very well leave him on the street, could I?”

“No,” John agreed and ate a fifth biscuit. “That wouldn’t have been very good.”

“That’s what I thought but then there was nowhere to put him. My flat is no place to receive an Omega.”

“You’re an Omega, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes, but then his scent would be in here for ages. I hardly produce enough of my own anymore, dear. And I would have to explain myself. Mr. Hudson is a very sensitive subject.”

John tightly smiled. “Yes. I know.”

“I couldn’t just leave him on the landing. You boys really should set some chairs out if you’re expecting Omega visitors. It's such an awful feeling to come home to another Omega’s scent in your flat and one so young too with you at your age.”

“I’m forty.”

“That’s a good attitude, dear. Mr. Hudson used to have all types. I think he liked seeing me all worked up. The sex was very good. I could recommend some tactics, you know. Especially if Sherlock is going to be needing a prescription.”

“Prescription?”

“You know, for his knot, dear.” John coughed. “Though it’s a bit of a shame, with Sherlock being in his prime. Do you think it was the drugs? You’re the doctor.”

“No.” John didn’t know how he was having this conversation.

“Well, if Mr. Hudson was too far gone for a bit of fun I’d just crush some up and put it in a cup of coffee. I could give you a few more tips, but they’d require other substances. Does that work for you? Hard to know, but you seemed to do just fine with the cocaine.”

“Right. Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh. Overshared a bit, did I?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure the sex was—lovely,” John managed.

“Oh. It was.” She squeezed his forearm. “I’m just so happy for you boys. Though, my bedroom is right below Sherlock’s. Perhaps I should invest in one of those noise machines.”

The kettle popped off and Mrs. Hudson made two cups that she foisted on John along with a spray bottle.

“For after those boys leave,” Mrs. Hudson said firmly. “Just give the area a bit of a spritz and send Sherlock down to collect the takeaway. I have something for him too.”

John hoped it wasn’t a prescription. God help him. He paused on the last step. He rolled his shoulders and straightened his back, holding his head high. There was no reason to be upset that an Omega was in the flat. Same as if it was a Beta or another Alpha.

The conversation stilled as John entered the room. The Belstaff had been returned to the table and another chair was pulled up next to Sherlock. John parked himself on it and shoved the teacups on the table. Oliver and his chaperone stood. They formally offered their fingers for scenting. Right. This was John’s territory and he was the senior Omega. He should have done the same thing earlier at the Talbot’s.

John smiled tightly. He brought each to his nose for hardly more than a second before dropping them. He returned the favor and made them both bend down to scent him. He wasn’t standing.

“What did I miss?” John asked mildly. He pulled his coat sleaves down.

“We were discussing the pins over clips.” Sherlock leaned forward as Oliver and his chaperone retook their seats. “Now stop wasting my time with idle chitchat.”

“You’re lucky you have an Omega already, Mr. Holmes, your tact is deplorable,” the chaperone grumbled.

Sherlock opened his mouth and John talked over him. Last thing they needed was this prolonged because they were rude. “We were about to take lunch. Perhaps we could reschedule if you feel uncomfortable broaching the subject?” John said with another stretched smile.

“You visited Henry’s parents, then?” Oliver said after a few beats.

“Word travels fast,” Sherlock said.

“They called the police, mate.”

“So, it would seem.”

“Did you talk to Henry?”

“No. When was the last time you talked to Henry?”

“Uh. Right. Um. A month and a half, on Tuesday, just before his heat.”

“And how did you get in contact with him?” John asked pulling out his notebook.

“We text. Call sometimes,” Oliver said. “Twitter. You know, whatever works, right?”

“So not at a club, then?”

“No. He normally stays home the week before.”

“John when was the last time you hung out with Mike?” Sherlock interrupted.

“What?”

“John.”

“I don’t know. A few weeks ago? Whenever we went down to the local.”

Sherlock taped his fingers, a quick grin tugging at his lips. “Henry was your lover.”

Oliver sat back. “You joking?”

“Who does anyone obsessively keep track of? Maybe a family member. Maybe a best friend. Most definitely an illicit lover.”

“Is that why you two competed over Alphas?” John asked.

“Brilliant, John.” Sherlock let out an excited gust. “Oh, that’s good. I had wondered. That’s why you go to the club. You need Alpha pheromones to get off. A quick shag with an Alpha on the club floor than off to a private room. And why you didn’t care at all last night about doing anything other than scenting. No Henry, no reason to.”

John licked his lips. They hadn’t done anything last night. Good. That was good.

“Um. Sorry, mate, but that’s wrong,” Oliver said.

“No. I’m right,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t worry,” John added. “Neither of us are inclined to share your, uh, preferences.”

Oliver swallowed. “You’re wrong.”

“Honestly, it’s all fine,” John assured.

“Yes. John’s sister pursues A/A relationships. Of course, she can’t maintain them.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s true,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“Is it?” Oliver asked.

John eyed Sherlock. “Yes. She was even married.”

“Until her divorce,” Sherlock added.

“Sherlock, timing!”

Sherlock made a face. “It’s still true.”

John just about threw his hands up in frustration. “Fine. She got a divorce and now is as much as an alcoholic as Hamish. Happy?” When Sherlock said nothing, John turned back to Oliver. “Sorry. Point is it’s fine, Oliver. It’s all fine.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” Oliver said. “Ever.”

John was struck with how young Oliver was. A teenager sat before him, one hardly out of his majority, with a sexual preference that was considered taboo among most of the UK. The laws that had started to pass parliament in the last few years hardly touched on decades of systematic sexism and deep-rooted bigotry.

He had watched Harry collapse under it until her only solace was being pissed off her arse. John, in turn, had chosen the army. He wasn’t sure which was worse, honestly. He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, and looked Oliver straight in the eyes, even as Oliver’s jumped around, too nervous to face either him or Sherlock.

“Alright,” John said softly. “That’s bollocks. You should have. Do you understand that? You absolutely should have.”

John should have. Years ago. In a flat in Chelmsford. Harry too, for that matter. 

“I’m not stupid, mate. You’re lucky to be able to say that.”

“Yeah,” John admitted. “When I said that in primary, I got taken out back and beaten behind a skip for defending my sister going on a date with another Alpha and I know she’s lucky. She can go on dates without people staring. But it is better. I know it doesn’t seem like it. But it's fucking loads better. And it's going to keep getting better. Do you understand?”

“That’s a load of shite,” Oliver said tightly. “You’re full of it.”

“Maybe. Maybe.” John leaned back in the chair and rolled his shoulders. “If you need to talk, our door is open for you. I promise.”

Oliver pinched his face. “Sure, mate. Can the two of you tell me about Henry or not? I don’t have time to listen to fake progressive shite.”

“Henry’s dead,” Sherlock said. John sighed and Sherlock glanced at him.

“Fuck off,” Oliver said. His voice started to tremble. “Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” John said softly, curving his voice into his most steady. “He passed during his last heat.”

Oliver shuddered. The chaperone picked up the spray bottle on the table and quickly sprayed Oliver, cutting off any pheromones attempting to flood the area.

“Maybe we should go, Oliver,” the chaperone said nervously.

“Fuck off.” Oliver stared at the ceiling, trying to hold back tears before angrily wiping at his face. “Did they say?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Nothing on how he died. Did you know his parents were selling his heats?” At Oliver’s and his chaperone's horrified looks Sherlock continued. “No you didn’t, did you. Did you stop to wonder how he wasn’t bonded? He had a few years on you, didn’t he? Almost twenty was it.”

“He said he hadn’t found the right Alpha yet. That he was waiting for a good contract.”

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“Um.” Oliver sucked in his breath. “They really didn’t say anything?”

John shook his head.

“Nothing?” Oliver begged.

“No,” Sherlock intoned.

“But maybe,” John started. “Do you think you could try to help us?”

“Help with what? He’s dead, isn’t he?” Oliver’s face crumpled and he sucked in another breath. “Fuck off.”

“We had been hoping to find Henry’s doctor.”

“What good will his bloody doctor do when he’s dead?” Oliver hissed.

“It would help us catch who killed him,” Sherlock said.

Oliver stared at him with wide eyes. “Killed?”

“Yes. We believe he was the first victim in a series of murders we are currently investigating. We believe his autopsy was altered to hide what happened. Finding out the name of his doctor would help us locate the original report, and who was behind it.”

“You’re sure?” Oliver demanded. “This isn’t a bloody joke?”

“Yes. Ha. Ha. So. Funny,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Sorry, he's a bit of an arsehole,” John interrupted. “It's not. We believe Henry was murdered. Anything you could do to help us.”

“Fuck. Yeah. I might.” Oliver fumbled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping. “Right,” he said after a few minutes. “His heat doctor was David Wood. Shite. Will that actually help?”

“Yes. Thank you, Oliver.”

“Right.” Oliver shifted. “Will you let me know?

“Of course.”

“Thanks. Shite.” Oliver shoved his phone back in his pocket. He turned to his chaperone. “Um, I think. Lunch?”

“Of course,” the chaperone said. “I’ll call the car over.”

“Great.” Oliver fussed. “You promise?” Oliver asked them. “On both?”

“Yeah,” John said. “We promise.”

“Good. Now that that’s all over, I’ll see you out,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock waited impatiently for Oliver and his chaperone to collect the belongings before he near bodied them out of the flat. John sat in the chair he heard them start descending the stairs before springing up and aggressively spraying the couch. He wanted every echo of Omega scent gone. His was the only one allowed in the flat.

John paused when he got to the Belstaff. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Christ. He picked up the Belstaff and held it to his face. He breathed in deeply, taking in all the scents. Oliver’s scent was faint but it still whispered from where he had touched it. That wouldn’t do at all.

Methodically, John trailed his nose along the coat. Every time Oliver’s scent peaked up he smothered it his own, smearing his cheek or wrist all over it. Sherlock probably wouldn’t notice. Probably. John licked his lips. He did his best to put the Belstaff back exactly as it had been before going up to his room for a quick change. If they wanted information on David Wood he’d need to pop into his Omega clinic and request information on practicing Omega specialists in London.

Sherlock came up the stairs John collected his phone and keys to head out.

“I’ll be popping off for a bit,” John said.

“We need milk,” Sherlock said.

“Serious?”

“You’re already popping out.”

John sighed. “Alright. Anything else?”

“Text me when you get to the store.”

“Pushing your luck.”

“Hm,” was all Sherlock said before going into the flat.

John jiggled his keys and headed out. Requesting practicing Omega specialists turned out to be easy. He showed up, asked and the receptionist printed out several pages for him, bending backward to accommodate him as he asked several pointed questions. She even misguidedly highlighted several parts of the print out in an attempt to help John understand the information better. He thanked her and left for the shops, only realizing as he walked the last few meters to Baker Street that he had never texted Sherlock asking what else he wanted. Well. That was fine. Sherlock could head down to the shops if he needed anything else.

John nudged the door to the flat open with his shoulder and stopped.

He stared.

The scent invaded him like sand, itching and begging for immediate attention. He breathed sharply.

Sherlock sat in his chair with the Belstaff draped half over his head. His bottom lip peaked out and he sucked on the heavy fabric. His adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow and his head fell further back, chasing the remaining pheromones on the coat. His legs were spread wide and his cock jutted straight up, casting its own impressive shadow over his taught stomach. It jerked in his hands, completely flushed, and straining. Precum dripped out.

John swallowed.

Sherlock’s left hand massaged his growing knot, his fingers curling and kneading the bulging skin. His other hand moved methodically with a wet suck, spreading his copious amount of precum up and down his shaft, catching every new leak and giving his cock a sheen in the low light of the fading afternoon.

John should be a good flatmate and piss off. Head down to Mrs. Hudson and have a cup of tea. Maybe eat the untouched dim sum. It was wank courtesy, wasn’t it? Ignoring his flatmate getting off in the middle of the room. John set down the shopping on the landing and nudged the door further open. His hands pulled at his belt, quietly undoing the buckle.

Sherlock made a noise, a hint of a moan, muffled by his coat. He had tightened his grip on his knot and he squeezed it several times in quick succession and it bulged out between his fingers from the pressure. Christ, it looked thick. John’s arse would swallow that up and he’d love every second of it. The toys he used worked fine but there was nothing compared to the real thing. To have a hot, heavy cock shoved in, splitting him apart as the knot pushed and stretched and made John beg for more.

Sherlock gasped louder, his hips shifting and legs straining further apart, pulling the fabric of his trousers taught around his knees.

John licked his lips. He eased his cock out and leaned against the door jam. He was already achingly hard. He brushed his slit and shuddered, catching his own precum and dragging it around the head, slicking it up. It was minuscule compared to what Sherlock was dripping.

Maybe John could do what Oliver did yesterday, just pop on up to Sherlock’s lap, brush their cheeks together and reach down between them and make Sherlock share. All of that was supposed to be in John’s arse anyway, slowly stuffing him the further Sherlock pushed in. During heat it would fill John right up every time Sherlock’s cock brushed into his inner folds, mixing their scents in the most intimate way possible. The smell would be divine, the constant burning thrum of Sherlock’s arousal over John’s softer notes and it would stay for days.

Sherlock relaxed his grip on his cock, splaying his fingers wide. Sherlock’s hands dwarfed half the objects he picked up; John’s cock included. His long fingers and wide palm had completely engulfed John’s prick, sheathing it in warm callouses. John wished he’d been able to see Sherlock jack him off.

How his cock would have looked, stiff and torrid in Sherlock’s grip. And small. That shouldn’t be a turn on, but God, it was. To know Sherlock rested behind him, every part of him big and Alpha and how safe John would be as he fucked himself into that massive hand. Watching the head of his cock push between those large fingers, coating them with his precum and his scent. Knowing that Alpha watched and felt everything John did.

John started wanking in earnest, biting down on his lower lip. He didn’t want Sherlock to hear him. He ground his arse against the wall, craving more than his pants sticking to his skin. If he’d worn an Omega pair he’d be able to just pop right over and help himself. Or Sherlock could stick his fingers right in as John leaned over him and buried his nose in Sherlock’s scent gland.

Christ that’d be something.

Sherlock fucking John on his fingers, thrusting them in and out, in the same precise brutal pace he was now using on his prick. He’d spread John’s arsehole wide as he added more, blunting into John’s inner muscles as his arse sucked and clenched and begged for more, slick dripping down Sherlock’s pale skin the faster he went.

John would bow further, lost in the mix of them, and suck on Sherlock’s neck. He’d feel the scent gland pulse as it engorged itself with pheromones to tempt John into biting. His teeth would drag back and forth, forcing the skin to flush and throb. John shuddered.

John’s hand would be flying over his cock and Sherlock would be watching, his gaze only on John. Just on John as John wrecked himself, letting his cum coat Sherlock’s posh shirt.

John breathed heavily and stroked himself, once, twice, and hunched over, gasping out silently and abruptly as he came. His free hand covered his cockhead, catching the cum that leaked out. His head thudded against the wall as he pitched to the side and he focused back on Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hips jerked off the chair, thrusting his cock into his fist. His other hand sharply flexed on his knot, mimicking what John’s arse would do if they fucked. His moans were muffled by the Belstaff as his knees pulled even further apart and he strained forward, the head of his cock shoving out and back between his wet fingers.

Sherlock stilled. His neck stretched further back and he groaned. A deep, Alpha sound that perked John’s cock right back up and settled right in his blood. He had to grip the door to keep himself still as Sherlock came, spurts of cum falling out all over his posh pants.

Christ. John was ready to go again.

Sherlock let go of his prick and it fell on his stomach, ruining his shirt as it continued to spasm. Both of his hands moved to his knot, gently caressing it. The Belstaff started to slide off as Sherlock's head shifted, letting his gasping breaths escape into the flat as he came down. Quickly, John tucked himself away and scrambled to pick up the bags. He swallowed. He’d just pop down to Mrs. Hudson, she already thought they were shagging and have a quick spritz of neutralizer. Then he’d pop back to the shop and send a text.


End file.
